


Bandage Your Wounds (With the salt on My Tongue)

by wehangout



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Abuse, Accidental overdose, Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, M/M, Sexual Content, Shameless Big Bang, Slurs, mentions of sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:47:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24536443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehangout/pseuds/wehangout
Summary: Maybe if he’d saved Mandy’s life, or Iggy’s, you’d be thankful for the first time in your own fucked-up life. But he saved Terry, and hating him is easy. Until he smiles. Until he’s soft. Until he's gentle. Until he looks at you like he gives a shit. And then you don’t hate him so much anymore.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 75
Kudos: 314





	Bandage Your Wounds (With the salt on My Tongue)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for round 9 of the Shameless Big Bang! Thanks to Ella, Erika, and [grumblesandmumbles](https://grumblesandmumbles.tumblr.com/)  
> for the beta work! The glorious art was made by the talented [amber-eys](https://amber-eys.tumblr.com/) and can be found [here](https://wehangout.tumblr.com/post/619988408643747840/bandage-your-wounds-with-the-salt-on-my-tongue/)

The _crack_ of the gun is deafening in the small room. It’s not like you’ve never heard a gun before – shit, Colin and Joey taught you how to shoot before you hit double digits – and it’s not even the first time a gun has been shot here, in your living room.

But this time the sound interrupts furious shrieks and vicious arguments. This time it comes less than a minute after the barrel had been aimed at your head. This time a warm streak of blood splatters across your face in the same instance.

It’s the quickest five seconds of your life – the _pop_ , the silence, the blood; your breath stutters in your throat, Terry’s eyes widen mid-glare, Iggy scrambles out of the way as the old man falls to the floor; your gaze flies to Mandy, her entire body trembles so hard that her teeth chatter, she lowers her arms.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, and fear and awe course through you.

“Fuck,” Iggy repeats, but when you look at him, he’s staring down at Terry, that same fear and awe written all over his face.

“Oh, fuck,” Mandy says, what sounds like a broken sob trying and failing to make its way out. You struggle to stand, adrenaline making your limbs jelly, letting you ignore every punch and kick you’ve just received, and stumble towards her - over Terry, around the pool of blood, through the mess from the fight. You grab one of her arms in a fierce grip.

“Give me the gun.”

She doesn’t look at you. She stares at Terry and shakes.

“Hey. _Mandy_.” Her name. It gets through to her and she lifts her eyes to meet yours. “Give me the gun.”

She gives passes it to you and you only notice then that she’s still wearing her winter gloves. That helps, but you hastily use the material of your tank to wipe off any and all prints anyway. Then you toss the gun across the floor, watch it scatter across the linoleum to the other side of the room, and turn back to Mandy. You look at her and she stares back, but you don’t say anything and neither does she. You just stare. There’s recognition and understanding and not an ounce of regret.

“Mick?”

You look at Iggy over your shoulder, but don’t move away from Mandy. He’s staring down at Terry, at the growing puddle of blood, at the stark reminder that you need to keep moving because Terry doesn’t seem to be moving or breathing and it’s enough to kick your ass into gear.

You don’t have time – time to plan, time to think, time to concoct whatever story will work out best for you and your siblings – so you go with your gut and hope for the best.

“Ig, call 9-1-1.”

“What? After what that fucker just did –“

“Yes, after what that fucker just did! We – we call for help, and they think we give a shit, okay? If we don’t, it becomes murder.” You turn to face him, only half sure about what you’re saying, and ignore the sick noise Mandy makes. You use one hand to wipe at the blood trickling into your eye and keep the other on her arm. “Call 9-1-1, ask for an ambulance … and the police.”

“Fuck.” Iggy glances between you, Mandy, and Terry before he nods and grabs his phone out. “Yeah, okay. Fuck.”

You grab Mandy again, this time by the shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Are you kidding? I just –“

“Don’t. Don’t say a fucking word, you got it?” You can hear Iggy behind you – _Someone’s been shot_ – and you dig your fingers into Mandy’s arms. She’s still got her coat on, the shoulders of it damp with snow. “Do not say a word.”

She nods, but she’s still quivering in your hands. You want to hug her, tell her that it’s okay, but that’s not how this works – it’s not you and it’s not her, it’s not this fucking family and that’s another thing you can blame Terry for – so you stare at her harder than you ever have before, trying to say everything you can’t say, everything you don’t know how to say, everything she needs to hear even though you have no fucking clue what that is.

You give her one last squeeze, let go, and take a step – not backwards, not forwards, no real direction – just a step, just movement to get things rolling, to force yourself to get your shit together. Your fingers itch for a smoke, all you can smell is blood, and there’s a pounding in your head that won’t stop.

“Fuck.”

“They’re on their way,” Iggy says, eyes flitting around the room and hands squeezing his phone. “Stupid woman told me to stay on the line until they got here, so I hung up.”

“You clean?” you ask him.

He blinks at you a few times before your question sinks in. “Nothing but weed, bro.”

“Yeah, okay. Good.” You turn back to Mandy. “Take off your coat and gloves. Chuck ‘em … somewhere – anywhere inconspicuous. We’ll wash them after.”

You wait until she begins to move before you continue to the next problem.

You look at the whore – the fucking whore – who lifts her chin in heavy defiance at your attention. But she’s scared, you can see it clear as fucking day. She’s naked, pressed against the wall with her head held high … but she’s terrified.

“Don’t fucking move.”

It’s unnecessary. The fact that she hasn’t tried to leave yet tells you as much.

She scowls. She’s scared, but she’s a fighter.

And she’s a problem.

“Fuck,” you repeat, aware that you’re in nothing but a pair of boxers and a tank top, but that’s it’s still a whole lot more than what she’s got on.

“Get dressed,” you tell her, voice steady. She stares at you, face blank, and Russian or not, you know she understands you because she had no trouble moving to follow Terry’s instructions.

 _(Ride him ‘til he likes it_. _)_

“Put your fucking clothes on,” you say, but this time your voice shakes, and then she shakes, and everyone’s fucking shaking because there’s a dead body on the floor and you were all there to see it happen. You pick up her dress and throw it at her. “Now.”

She gets dressed and you find some jeans. You make eye contact with Iggy while you do them up, while Mandy hides evidence in her bedroom, while the faint sound of sirens blare in the distance. You say nothing and he says nothing, but it’s not like with Mandy. It’s not _defiance_ ; the silent conversation you have with him is everything when he gives a subtle nod at your questioning eyebrow.

You step up to the whore. “You saw nothin’, got it? You weren’t even here.”

“Or what?” she says, and she’s chosen the wrong fucking time to question you.

“You don’t wanna find out, bitch. Now get the fuck out the back door. I don’t wanna see your fucking face again.”

She leaves, with murder in her eyes, but there’s nothing more you can do about it – about her. You watch her leave out the back door as Mandy comes back into the living room, coat and gloves gone and old hoodie pulled on.

The back-door slams shut, and you pull your smokes out of your back pocket. You light one up and hand it to Mandy, but you have to grab her hand and place the cigarette between her fingers before she realises what’s going on. Then you light one up for Iggy, and one for yourself as the sirens sound from right outside. You inhale deeply, the nicotine shooting through your bloodstream and settling every tremor you hadn’t realised existed. It makes you calm, steady, clear. Everything that doesn’t matter then and there exits your mind and you’re left with nothing but clarity.

“We saw nothing,” you say to the whole room, and leave no room for argument. “There was a party, things got out of hand, and everyone else took off when he was shot. We saw nothing.”

The next minute is a blur of door knocking, moving back to where you were when Terry got shot, paramedics calling out orders and stats to each other while you stand and watch and smoke. You watch Iggy and Mandy, who watch what’s happening to Terry. You watch out the window, nerves kicking in as cop cars pull up. You watch the two EMTs, one holding a mask over Terry’s face, the other pumping away at his chest.

A jolt of recognition rushes over as you stare at the one at Terry’s heart. Ian Gallagher. Mandy’s best friend. South Side’s gay activist. You watch him – the way his jacket bunches at his shoulders with every push he makes, how his red hair falls over his face the longer he goes, the large, pale hands that press onto Terry’s chest.

You want to tell him to stop, that it’s okay, just let it fucking go already, but you don’t. You can’t. You know you can’t say shit like that with the cops standing ten feet away without it coming back to bite you in the ass. So you smoke and watch, a sense of calm flowing over you with every passing second.

The other paramedic holds up a hand to stop Gallagher, checks Terry’s pulse, shakes her head. Gallagher goes back to it and the calm continues, enough that you chance another glance around the room. Everyone else is still watching, but they look okay. They look just as calm as you feel, and it’s possibly not the best reaction to have in front of the police, but it’s better than the alternative.

Gallagher stops again, and you think this is it, they’re gonna call it. He reaches for Terry’s neck, searches for a pulse, and … he sighs.

“Got it,” he says.

“Wait, what?” The words are out before you can even consider them and he looks up at you, his face calm.

“I’ve got a pulse. He’s alive.”

You stare at him. You stare at him as he goes about getting Terry ready for the ambulance. You stare at him saving Terry’s life and you’ve never hated two people more in your life.

\---

The hospital is cold, which doesn’t seem entirely right for a hospital, but whatever. Maybe it’s not the hospital, maybe it’s just that you can’t stop fucking shivering. You haven’t had control over your limbs since Terry’s pulse came back. Maybe it’s adrenaline and shock and terror all at once.

You fidget in your seat and tug your sleeves over your hands a little more. You wish like fuck you’d thought to grab more than an old hoodie in the rush to leave the house, but rushing had seemed like the right thing to do. Your dad had just been shot, very nearly declared dead – of course you need to hurry to the hospital, no you don’t have time to answer questions right now, officer.

Your dad has been shot, very nearly declared dead – _that’s_ the part you should be stuck on, unable to stop thinking about, and maybe if your dad wasn’t Terry Milkovich you would be, you’d actually give a shit … but he is Terry and you don’t give a shit. At the most, it’s the _very nearly_ that sticks to your skin.

More than that, though, it’s the police. More specifically, questions they want to ask.

You saw nothing.

It was fucking self-defence, but you can’t tell them that. You can’t tell them that Mandy shot him to save you – your pride, your humility, your fucking life. There’s no fucking way because the risk is too high. Milkoviches don’t snitch at the best of times – there’s no way in the world you’re gonna tell anyone what happened and chance something happening to Mandy.

You look at her, hoping to see that defiance, that justification, but there’s none of that. She stares at the wall opposite, hands limp at her sides, and simply breathes. You don’t know if she’s okay. You think that maybe, before Terry’s pulse came back, she was okay. Shook up, but okay.

Now …

She’s translucent, except for the knuckle-shaped crescent beneath her eye. You had forgotten about that, in all the chaos. Terry hit her. He hit Mandy. It doesn’t compare to the shit she said before he did it, but seeing it was something else.

_(He said I looked just like mom.)_

And it makes you want to kill someone. Kill Terry, specifically, but he’s in surgery and he’s probably going to be just fucking fine because Ian Gallagher did such a good fucking job and saved his fucking life.

“Fuck.”

You curl your hands into fists and ignore the feel of Iggy’s stare. Your breath comes in short, sharp, broken bursts, and the thudding of your heart is enough to physically hurt. And not because Terry almost died, but because he didn’t. Because he hurt Mandy and he knows you’re gay and Iggy stood up for you and Mandy instead of taking Terry’s side –

“Mickey.”

You look at Iggy. He’s scared. Everyone’s fucking scared, and it’s enough. It’s everything.

You push through the painful breath until you’ve sucked in a decent lungful of air and let it out slowly. Falling apart is not an option.

“Mick?” he says again, and you nod at him to let him know you’re okay, not sure you’ve got much more than that in you. He continues. “We did nothing wrong.”

Mandy snorts. “Damn straight. The fucker deserves what he got.”

You sit up straight, back in control of your voice, your limbs, everything. “Fuck yeah, he did, but that’s private talk, you hear me? You say that to anyone else and things are gonna turn to shit real fucking quick, Mands.”

She laughs, but it’s hollow. “Mickey. Dad’s alive. I shot him, but he’s still alive. How much worse can it possibly get?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, and glance around the waiting room. There’s an elderly couple on the other side, but they’re both snoring softly, and you can only hope like hell they’re not faking.

You scowl at Mandy. There’s so much more you want to say but nothing else you can. She goes back to staring at the wall and you go back to silence. You need to fix this shit. You need to make sure nothing happens to Mandy. You need to make sure Iggy stays solid. You need to punch Ian Gallagher in the fucking throat.

You need to make a fucking list.

“Listen.” You lean forward in your seat, force back a grimace at the overwhelming pain in your ribs and lower your voice. “Cops are gonna be askin’ questions the second they get the chance, and we all gotta stick to the same fuckin’ story here, yeah? We saw nothin’.”

“Nothin’,” Iggy agrees.

“Everything before …” You thumb at your eyebrow and then look up, meet both their gazes head on. “We can stick to some truths. They’re – they’re gonna wanna know why I’m all fucked up, so … so we say he found out about me and then beat the shit outta me.”

Iggy nods dutifully. Mandy cocks an eyebrow.

“You’re gonna come out now, Mick? You’ve spent the last twenty years hiding like a little bitch, and now you wanna tell everyone you’re queer?”

You suck a breath in through clenched teeth. “Better than the alternative, ain’t it? Or, what? You wanna tell a bunch of pigs what he did to you? Fuckin’ press charges and stand up in court and give out all the gory details. In between goin’ down for shootin’ the fucker?”

“Fuck you,” she says, eyes wet but sharp. “You don’t know shit.”

You know enough, and you know Mandy well enough to know that she won’t share shit about what Terry did to her unless absolutely fucking necessary.

Apparently today was necessary.

You wipe a hand over your face, wincing at the pain. “If I come clean, they’ll see we’re bein’ honest about shit, yeah? And they won’t think too hard about – about everything else. A sign of good fucking faith.”

“You came out, Dad flipped his shit, someone shot him … whatever.” Mandy crosses her arms and glares at something on the opposite wall.

“What about the whore?” Iggy asks.

“I’ll figure it out,” you say, and sit back in your seat. Mandy, Iggy, Gallagher, the whore … just more to add to the list.

But Mandy’s at the top of the list and you think she’s gonna be there for a while. You need to keep an eye on her, really fucking watch her twenty-four-seven to make sure she doesn’t sneak into Terry’s room and finish the fucking job.

Shit, it’s such a fucking mess.

“Can’t believe they brought him back from the fucking dead,” you mutter.

“Dunno if he was dead,” Iggy says. “Looked it, but …”

“Shoulda let him bleed out.”

Iggy rests his dirty boot on the coffee table in front of him in reply and Mandy shifts in her seat.

“I can’t believe it was Ian.” She continues when you only give her a blank stare in return. “Ian Gallagher – it was Ian.”

“Saint Gallagher? The fucking neighbourhood do-gooder? Yeah, I noticed.”

She shrugs. “Guess he was just doin’ his job.”

“Yeah, saving lives and fucking us up. Awesome.”

Gallagher doesn’t come around the house so much anymore; not since Terry decided to play nice with his parole officer after his last stint almost two years ago. Out-and-proud Gallagher, who rides around in an ambulance saving people, is just as scared of Terry Milkovich’s bullshit as everyone else.

You don’t give a shit how out or how proud he is. Couldn’t care less who he’s saved and how many fluorescent rainbow pep-talks he’s given.

He’s got the beating of his life coming to him.

Iggy shifts in his seat, and your fingers ache to hold a cigarette. You watch your brother lean forward and rest his elbows on his knees. You meet his gaze and raise your eyebrows in silent question.

“So,” he begins, “you like dick, huh?”

He’s got this stupid grin on his face, like he’s trying to ease the tension in the waiting room, like he’s trying to make fun of you without actually being mean … like he’s trying to say _it’s cool, man_ without having to say _it’s cool, man_.

Mandy sneers at him. “Shut the fuck up, Iggy.”

Terry wasn’t the only one to find out about you today, and Iggy and Mandy’s reactions had been a fear you didn’t know you had. But Iggy’s grin grows, and you kind of can’t help but grin a little back, feel a weight you didn’t know was there lift from your shoulders.

\---

The cops question Mandy first because they’re a bunch of sexist pigs who think she’ll rat because she’s a girl. It’s obvious from the get-go they don’t know shit about her. _Milkovich_ might be a well-known name down at the station, but it’s all Terry and no Mandy.

You sit next to Iggy in the waiting room. Another fucking waiting room, this one with shitty Thanksgiving decorations tossed around without care. Feels like all you’ve done since that shot rang out is wait – wait for the ambulance and police to show, wait for the doctors to finish surgery, wait for your turn to be interrogated. It’s all a fucking waiting game and you’re already sick of it.

You still don’t know if Terry’s going to make it. He’s out of surgery. Critical. Whatever the fuck that means. All you know is that life would have been a hell of a lot easier if he’d died on the living room floor.

Mandy comes out of the interrogation room after twenty minutes, maybe thirty, and the cop calls Iggy up. You sit in your chair, legs splayed, arms crossed, no care in the fucking world.

Well, one care, but it sure as shit isn’t whether Iggy and Mandy are gonna talk. You and Iggy hashed the story out on the drive to the hospital, ensuring it was vague – because you saw nothing – but honest enough to diminish any doubt. Despite that, you still ask.

“What’d you say?”

“Fuck you,” Mandy replies, and you can’t blame her.

Iggy’s in the interrogation room for over an hour before he’s let out. Again, you put it down to pigs thinking he had more to do with it than Mandy because he’s a guy. Whatever. If it keeps them off her back, then you don’t give a shit.

He throws you a wink on his way out and you roll your eyes.

“Mickey. You’re up,” the cop says. He’s fat and bald and it doesn’t surprise you that he’s here asking you shit instead of chasing bad guys down the street.

You keep that thought to yourself and follow him into the interrogation room.

It’s not your first time in an interrogation room. Shit, it’s not your first time in this exact room, and it looks the same as the last time you were there – shitty table in the middle, wonky chair for you to sit in, bleakness everywhere. Exactly how you remember it.

“So, Mickey,” the cop says when you sit down. He told you his name, but you paid zero attention at the time and don’t care enough to ask or even check out his name tag. You just watch as he grabs out his notebook and a tiny pencil. “Can you tell me what happened tonight?”

You shrug. “Sorry, officer. I saw nothing.”

\---

Three hours, two interrogations, and one change in officer later, you break.

Tony Markovich is in front of you. You don’t know if they’re trying out a familiar face or hoping for some kind of Southside understanding to come through, but you take it.

“Okay, fuck!” You run a hand through your hair. “I’ll tell you.”

“Anything you’re able to tell us will be helpful, Mickey.”

You think about Mandy and Iggy. No doubt they’re in other rooms receiving the same treatment you are. Or maybe not. The entire thing has gone a little further than you expected. You kind of thought the police would be pleased someone tried to take out Terry and leave it at that.

Or maybe that’s just you.

“Me and my dad fought,” you begin. “We were fighting when it happened.”

“That’s how you got those bruises?” Tony asks. “The cracked ribs?”

He’s guessing at the ribs, but shit, so are you. You refused to get checked out at the hospital, but you’ve had enough beatings in your life to know what cracked ribs and a shit-ton of cuts and bruises feels like.

“Yeah. Terry ain’t exactly father of the year, you know?”

Tony smiles. “I can imagine. What were you and your dad fighting about?”

And this is it. This is the moment that could make or break you. Forget Terry, forget what Mandy did, forget Iggy’s easy acceptance. This is all you.

“He found my stash.” That’s not even it, not at all, but your voice still comes out quiet and hoarse.

“Drugs?”

You can’t help the huff of a laugh that escapes, and you reach up to rub at your eyebrow. “Na, man. Porn.”

“Okay,” Tony says, confused smile on his face. “I’m afraid I’m gonna need more than that.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Wipe at it with the back of your hand. Clear your throat.

“Could I … could I have some water?”

Tony pours you a plastic cup of the conveniently placed jug of water and you down it in one. Watching you carefully, he pours you another and you think you might both wish it was vodka.

You take a deep breath and start again, nothing but truth to your words.

“Dad found my porn. My gay porn.”

“Gay – you’re gay?”

“I’m … yeah.”

And it shouldn’t be so hard to say it out loud, but it occurs to you then and there that you haven’t said it before. Not ever. And you hate that. You hate that you’ve kept those simple fucking words to yourself just because you feared Terry finding out.

Well now he fucking knows, and you’re done hiding.

“Yeah,” you say again, stronger, defiant. “I’m gay and my dad’s a raging homophobe.”

Once the words are out, it’s stupidly simple. There’s no wave of relief, no weight off your shoulders, nothing. They’re just words and you’ve said them and that’s fucking that.

“I don’t know what he was lookin’ for – possibly drugs,” you admit with a shrug, “but that’s what he found, and this is the end result.”

“You beat to a bloody pulp and him in the hospital.”

“Yeah, well. Like I said, I didn’t see anything when he was shot. I was lyin’ on that fucking floor waiting for another kick to the ribs, so …”

“What about your siblings? Where were Iggy and Mandy?”

“Yeah, they were there.” You nod and point at your eye. “You’ll see Mandy’s got her own war wound prettyin’ up her face – hell, Ig probably does, too.”

You have a vague recollection of Terry’s hands around Iggy’s neck, but there’s a chance you were in and out of consciousness for a minute there.

“They were trying to help you?”

“Yeah,” you say, and if your voice breaks slightly, Tony doesn’t mention it.

They were trying to help you. They stood up to Terry, knowing exactly why he was beating the crap out of you, and did what they could. Mandy’s going to be sporting a blackeye for the next week and Iggy for sure had a gun pointed at him, but they did it. For you.

And it fucks you up inside, in a way that you don’t have the time, patience, or willpower to explore or let take over. There’s too much going on; you’re struggling to process the last twelve hours as it is without throwing that shit into the mix.

Mandy, Iggy, Ian Gallagher, the whore, and the possibility of Terry waking up. You need to concentrate on that, on the list, nothing else.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Tony says, and he doesn’t know half of it; he doesn’t know about Mandy or the whore, he doesn’t know about every beating growing up, or the shit Terry called you after he found out.

But he sounds fucking genuine and it sets off a natural reaction.

“Don’t need your fucking pity, officer.”

Tony smiles softly and shuffles through his notes. “Okay, I’m gonna need you to tell me again what happened, from the beginning. Every detail.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill.”

Tony moves the voice recorder closer and you start at the beginning.

Lying to the police has never been an issue for you – you’re a fucking Milkovich; you learned how to do that before you learned your ABC’s – and this is no different. Especially since you kept this story so close to the truth, merely omitting the whore and anything that could incriminate you, Mandy, or Iggy.

“The party was already in full swing when you got home?” Tony asks, pencil over paper.

“Yeah, Dad was already pretty wasted.”

“Who else was there?”

“What do you mean?”

Tony lifts his hand in a vague motion. “You didn’t see who took the shot because Terry was hurting you. Mandy and Iggy didn’t see who took the shot because they were trying to help you. The only way I’m gonna find out who took the shot is by knowing who else was there.”

“Shit, man.” You pause and run a hand through your hair. “You know who my old man runs with?”

“I know a name here and there.”

“Exactly. He’s got fuckin’ contacts everywhere and I don’t know shit about any of them.” You pause again, frown in concentration. “I dunno. I hadn’t been home thirty seconds before he jumped me, but even in that time I didn’t get a good look at anything … it all happened so fast.”

“Anything you can tell me would be helpful, Mickey.”

You shrug. “They were all white, that much I’m sure of.”

Tony writes it down, as if the voice recorder isn’t whirring away between you. “That helps. Terry has ties with gangs all over the city and that narrows it down.”

“Can’t guarantee it, but I might have seen a couple of Swastika tats before Dad got his first hit in.” Because if you’re gonna blame someone it might as well be the fucking Nazi’s. “The rest is kind of a blur, you know? I don’t know how long Dad was at me before Iggy and Mandy got home, or even how long after the he got shot, but …”

“But what?”

You look down at your hands, pick at the _k_ on the _fuck_. “Can’t say I’m sad it happened. Dad said a lot of shit – fucking nasty shit – while he was hitting me. I dunno, man. I just don’t like to think about what would’ve happened if it didn’t happen.”

And you meant to say that shit, you did. Like you told Iggy and Mandy at the hospital – you’ll throw yourself under the bus, open up to the cops, throw them a bit of sentimentality in the interest of good faith, fingers fucking crossed.

But it’s not supposed to come out so small, so hoarse, so fucking honest.

Tony stares at you. You can feel his gaze on you, and it takes everything you have not to snap at him. Or punch him in the face.

He moves to turn off the voice recorder and you lift your head to meet his gaze.

“Listen, I can’t condone violence, you know that. And it’s my job to find out who shot your dad, but …” He stops, closes his notebook and gets to his feet. “You’re entitled to feel however you feel, Mickey. You were going through something no one should ever have to go through, and It sounds like whoever took that shot might’ve saved your life.”

You shrug. “Whatever.”

“You and your siblings are free to go,” Tony says. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else from you.”

He leaves without another word, but you don’t for a second think you’re alone. The two-way mirror is facing you and you have no idea who’s behind it.

You get up, rub a hand over your face, fight every instinct in your body telling you to flip the mirror off, and leave the interrogation room. You walk down the hallway, nod at your siblings, and get the fuck out of the police station.

You expect to feel relief once you’re out, an overwhelming sense of _at least that’s done_ , but there’s nothing.

Not a thing.

\---

The drive home is silent. On the way to the police station you and Iggy had sat up front, fleshing out the story to tell the cops, while Mandy sat silent in the back. This time, you shove Iggy into the backseat and make Mandy sit up front. You don’t think it’s good for her to be alone.

You don’t make conversation, though. There’s nothing you could possibly say. Once you stop at a red light and consider turning on the radio, but you can’t stand the idea of something poppy digging into your brain, or something heavy fucking with Mandy’s.

“Gotta go see Laura,” Iggy mutters as soon as you’re home. He goes to climb out and you grasp his arm to stop him.

“Not a word.”

He scowls. “I ain’t fuckin’ stupid, Mick.”

You climb out of the car as he ambles away. You’d trust Laura to keep this whole fucking thing a secret in the way that, if she had been there, you wouldn’t worry about her narcing. She’s South Side, she’s been with Iggy for over a year now, and she knows the fucking score. Had she been there, she would’ve kept her mouth shut along with the rest of you.

But she wasn’t there, and that makes a difference.

You follow Mandy inside, almost walking right into her when she stops dead in the living room.

“’Sup?” you ask, stepping around her, and it’s the blood.

You’d forgotten how much blood there was. Shit, you watched it all leak out of Terry, but seeing it now, wet and soaked into the thin carpet … it’s a lot.

“Go to bed,” you tell Mandy. “I’ll sort this shit out.”

She doesn’t fight you on it, and you stand and stare at the blood, not moving until the squeal of the pipes from the shower shakes you out of whatever fucking trance Terry’s blood had you in.

You take off your hoodie – it wasn’t doing shit to keep you warm, anyway – and head for the kitchen. There’s a bucket of cleaning supplies under the sink, stashed in behind a rusted pan, a couple of baseball bats, and too many dead roaches. The last time you used it was three years ago when Terry pushed your head into the bathroom sink and concussed you so bad that you threw up all over your bedroom floor.

You’re not sure it’s been used since.

You spill some detergent into the bucket, fill it with water, carry everything you can find into the living room. Then you stop.

It’s a lot of blood. It’s a lot of Terry’s blood. Terry. Your dad. One eyebrow creeps up as you stare at the puddle, and it fully dawns on you that you don’t care. You don’t care that it’s Terry’s – your own father’s – blood, soaking into the floor from where he nearly bled out; all you care about is everything that surrounds that fact.

He knows your gay.

He tried to force a Russian whore to fuck you.

He strangled Iggy.

He raped Mandy.

He pistol-whipped you.

Mandy shot him.

He’s still alive.

You drop to your knees and grab the bucket, the brush, the bottle of bleach. You pour the bleach over the puddle, submerge your hand holding the brush into the hot water, and begin.

You don’t care that it’s Terry’s blood, you just want every bit of it gone.

\---

You wake to stinging fingers and an aching body, and everything convulses once, twice, until you get your bearings. You’re on the couch, eyes crusty with sleep, hands burning from the bleach you used to clean the carpet, and everything else recovering from the beating of the day before.

“Fuck.”

You use your thumb and forefinger to wipe at your eyes, wincing at the pain in your hand, in your eyes, in your ribs. Fucking everywhere. Fucking Terry.

The blood is gone, for the most part. The puddle is gone, at least, and all that remains is a dirty-pink stain that you think might be there forever. A part of you wants to get back to it, boil some water and scrub the fuck out of that pink until it shines white against the rest of the grubby grey carpet.

But there’s a slightly sane part of you that knows it’s a terrible idea, and when you finally chance a glance at your hands, you see why.

“Jesus,” you mutter, and your eyes water. It’s not the pain that does it, but the red, blistering skin that hurts to even look at.

You head for the bathroom, not sure what to do but desperate for a hot shower. You can’t stop shivering and you need to do something to your hands. You stop at the sink, rinse your hands under lukewarm water, and hope for the best, because your house is not the kind of house that stocks first-aid kits.

Once the sting eases and you stop staring, you look up, right into your reflection in the mirror, and recoil.

“Holy fuck.”

You’ve had beatings before – beatings from Terry, beatings from your brothers, beatings from random people you’ve got into fights with – but nothing like this.

One eye is swollen almost completely shut, there’s more freshly bruised skin than not, and one side of your face is covered in dried blood. You lift a hand and gingerly touch at the cut in your forehead, right where Terry hit you with his gun, and your fingers come away wet.

Fuck.

You turn and puke into the toilet. You retch until bile comes up and your breath comes in short, sharp gasps.

It’s bad. Maybe worse than you thought. You should have let a nurse, or someone, look at you last night. Or, at the very least, got Iggy to stick around because there’s no way you’re not concussed as fuck right now.

Your stomach churns again, and if your last hack into the toilet sounds like a broken sob, well, no one needs to know.

And it’s that thought that pulls you together. No one can know shit about this, about anything. You saw nothing. Mandy saw nothing. Iggy saw nothing. The whore …

Mandy, Iggy, Gallagher, the whore, Terry waking up …

The list.

You wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, turn the shower on as hot as it will go, and spit into the toilet one last time.

Mandy, Iggy, Gallagher, the whore, Terry …

You wash with whatever old soap you can find, clench your teeth at the burn in your fingers, the ache in your ribs, the blood that swirls down the drain. You wash it all away – the pain, the hurt, the terror – because you’re done, you had your fleeting moment of panic, and now it’s over. It’s finished. You’re done with it.

Mandy, Iggy, Gallagher, the whore, Terry …

\---

Iggy’s waiting at the front gate for you when you leave the house, hair wet and hands still stinging. It’s cold out – at least five degrees lower than yesterday – and the ground in front of you is icy.

“How’s Mandy?” he asks and opens the gate for you.

“Don’t know. I knocked and she told me to fuck off.” You shrug, trying not to show how concerned you are, but this is Iggy and Iggy knows Mandy as well as you do.

“We need to keep an eye on her.”

“No shit.” You start down the sidewalk, and it’s an easy decision to change the subject. “The fuck were you waitin’ out here for?”

He shrugs and pulls out his smokes. Lights two. “Didn’t wanna come inside.”

“Fuckin’ pussy.”

It’s weak. So weak that he just shrugs again and hands you a smoke.

“Jesus fuck,” he says. “The fuck happened to your hands?”

You take a long drag of your cigarette and side-eye him. “Bleach burns, or some shit. Cleaned up that giant puddle of blood you’re so fuckin’ scared of and this is what I got for it.”

“Yeah? It’s gone now?”

“Mostly. Might go buy some rubber fuckin’ gloves or some shit, try again later. Or just pull up the carpet and set the whole thing alight.” You shrug, wrap your lips around your smoke, and mumble around it. “Whatever’s easier, yeah?”

“I’ll help. Whatever you do, I’ll help.”

“Fat load of help you were last night,” you say, but you punch his shoulder, so light that it’s more of a nudge, to let him know you’re not serious. “You say anything to Laura?”

“Fuck off.”

You nod at the expected answer and continue to smoke. It’s your third since getting out of the shower, and it continues to relax you. Whatever you had felt before your shower is gone because it has to be; you have your list and your plan, and that’s what you need to concentrate on.

“Where we headin’?” Iggy asks when you turn left down a side street.

“ _Pearl’s_.”

“Yeah? You think the whore was one of Pearlman’s?”

“Na, you know Pearlman doesn’t allow any foreigners,” you say around a mouthful of smoke. “The Russian chick might’ve been white, but Pearlman wants to make America great again by using whores who suck dick with freedom and a side of liberty.”

“One of his girls is called Liberty, actually.”

“Jesus, Ig.”

He laughs. “Don’t tell Laura I know that.”

You shake your head. “You’re fuckin’ gross, man.”

“Whatever,” he says, but doesn’t deny it. “So if Pearlman doesn’t allow Russians, then why the fuck are we goin’ there?”

It’s a fair question with a simple answer; Terry is almost as racist as Pearlman, and _Pearl’s_ was his local – was? Is? You’re still not sure and plan to procrastinate calling the hospital for as long as you can – and while there might be plenty of whorehouses on the South Side, you don’t have the will or want to go checking them all out, looking for one specific whore. Asking Pearlman is your quickest option.

You grin at Iggy, though. “Listen, you do whatever the fuck you wanna do in your spare time, but I ain’t Googling _Russian whores in south Chicago_. I just ain’t.”

“Ya think Pearlman’ll lead us in the right direction?”

“Dunno, man,” you say, honestly. “Dunno where else to start, though.”

Iggy’s silent and you let it wash over you as your previous concern begins to grow again. You need to find the whore – Mandy might not be safe if you don’t – and Pearlman is literally your only idea. And if he falls through, if he doesn’t know where the fuck you go to find a Russian whore, then you’re fucked because Google will only tell you so much.

You stop outside the door that you know leads to _Pearl’s_ and take a moment.

Mandy, Iggy, Gallagher, the whore, Terry …

You’re not working in order, but you’re doing what you can and that’s going to have to be enough.

Pearlman sneers at you when you walk inside, and it’s the same kind of sneer Terry gave you yesterday. Like he knows what you are and wants to beat the shit out of you for it. You know he doesn’t know, though. There’s no way for him to know …

“Heard your old man ended up in the hospital last night,” he says by way of greeting. Next to you Iggy chokes on his own spit, but you take the opening for what you can.

“Yeah? What exactly did ya hear about it?”

“Someone shot ‘im. S’all I know.”

“You sure about that, Pearlman?” You take a step closer because he might look at you the same way Terry did yesterday, but he’s still a fucking pussy who’s scared shitless of anything with more attitude than him.

He caves in seconds.

“I’ve got a goddamn scanner out the back, boy, and that’s all I heard. I ain’t been talkin’ to anyone.”

You don’t react and you don’t give a shit. You’re playing the part of vengeful son – or, at the very least, a _Milkovich_ – to keep everyone off your back because it’s what you need to do to keep Iggy and Mandy safe. They saved your ass, now it’s time to return the favour.

“We’re lookin’ for a whore,” you say.

“Got plenty of ‘em.”

You roll your eyes. “A specific one.”

Pearlman’s grin is lecherous. “One that takes brothers, huh? Nothin’ to be ashamed about – you ain’t the first Milkovich brothers wantin’ to tag team.”

“The fuck …“ You can’t help the grimace on your face and you’re fucking relieved to see the same look on Iggy’s when you turn to face him. Fuck knows what Colin, Joey, and Tony have been up to at _Pearl’s_ , but the last thing you want is to know.

“That’s fuckin’ sick,” Iggy mutters and you quickly move the conversation back to where you want it.

“Russian,” you say, loud and clear so everyone knows it’s time to move the fuck on. “Lookin’ for a Russia, about yay-high, brown hair –“

“This look like a place that rents out commies to you?”

“Looks like a whorehouse,” you say. “If she ain’t here then you know where I can find her?”

Pearlman’s silent for a long moment and you raise your eyebrows expectantly. Two girls come out of a back room, wearing nothing more than sheer robes, but you keep your eyes on Pearlman. He finally wipes at his nose with the back of his hand and nods left.

“Sasha’s got a bunch of ‘em. Over on 18th and Harbour.”

“Thank you!” You raise your hands in mock delight. “Now was that so fucking hard?”

“Fuck you, Milkovich.”

You flip him off and turn to leave, dragging Iggy along behind you while he ogles the near-naked girls down the hall.

\---

Sasha’s is twenty minutes in the other direction, so you stop in at home to check on Mandy first. Iggy refuses to come in.

“You just cleaned the whole place up,” he says, pulling out his smokes. “Now’s as good a time as any to stop smokin’ inside.”

You stare at him, try to figure out what the fuck’s going on in that thick head of his, but he won’t meet your gaze. He looks out towards the road and inhales his smoke, and you avert your gaze to his neck. To the bruises on his neck. Fuck.

“Yeah. Okay.”

You leave it at that and head inside. It’s silent, but stinks of chemicals and blood. You might be imagining the blood, but it feels real, that slight hint of pennies beneath the bleach and detergent. And when you glance at the stain on the living room floor, it’s worse than you remember it being, worse than you’d hoped for.

“Fuck.”

You’re going to have to get some more cleaning supplies and sort that shit out, especially if it’s what’s stopping Iggy from coming home.

You knock on Mandy’s door and get nothing in reply. You’ve been gone an hour, max, and it’s barely noon. She can’t be asleep again. Unless she didn’t sleep the night before, and you wouldn’t put that past her after everything that happened. You knock again, give it five seconds, then reach for her door handle.

It’s locked.

“Fuck,” you mutter, again. “Mandy?”

Nothing.

You wipe at your nose with the back of your hand and take a step back. You want to knock again, kick at her door until it opens, but you know that’s not the right move.

 _(He came into my room at night_. _)_

You close your eyes at the memory, at her words ringing in your ears, and it does nothing. So you turn around and leave. You leave Mandy alone, avoid the stain on the floor, and the lump in your throat.

\---

Her name is Svetlana and the sight of her makes your mouth run dry. Not because Terry tried to make you fuck her, but because she’s the only other person who saw everything. She’s the only person you can’t trust to keep their trap shut, and you need to do something about that yesterday.

Sasha brings three girls of your description out and introduces each one. Svetlana doesn’t acknowledge you, doesn’t treat you different from any other John; she smokes through her cigarette holder, bored expression on her face, while Iggy tenses next to you.

“That one,” you say, waving a hand in her direction, and she starts down the hall without a word.

You and Iggy follow, having already forked out too much fucking money, but having no choice in the matter. When she opens a door at the very end of the hall, you go in after her, Iggy right on your heels. He locks the door with a gentle click.

“Well,” she says, and her accent is thick in that one word alone. “Father killers here to spit roast me, yes?”

“What? Fuck! No. What the fuck is it with whores and pimps and brothers doin’ chicks at the same time, Jesus?”

“I don’t know,” she shoots back, “what is it with young girls shooting their father in family living room?”

You stare her down, the same stare that’s had grown men in tears, but she doesn’t relent. She cocks an eyebrow and continues to smoke her cigarette, and it’s a whole different side to her from the day before. There’s no fear, no indignation, no hostility. She’s casual, uncaring … secure.

“What is it?” you ask, cutting right to the chase. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?”

“What the fuck do we have to do to keep you quiet?”

She inhales, manages to make the plastic cigarette holder look elegant, and smiles. “I want wedding.”

“What? What the fuck do you want a wedding for and why the fuck do you need us for it?”

She shrugs. “Cannot have wedding without groom.”

Silence. Only not. There’s moaning coming from down the hall, banging from the room above, and cheesy instrumental music from a speaker in the corner. But she’s silent and Iggy’s silent and you can’t think of a single thing to say …

“The fuck’re you talkin’ about?” Iggy almost yells, and you spin around to glare at him. He continues is a staged whisper. “Seriously? You want to marry one of us? After the shitshow you witnessed yesterday?”

“I want to marry American,” she says. “You are American.”

“Ukranian,” Iggy says. “Full blooded.”

“Perhaps. But also American citizen – born and bred, yes?”

Fuck.

You expected money, one hundred percent. You hadn’t given it much thought, focusing more on the fact that you needed to find her than what it would take to keep her quiet, but money was such an obvious answer that anything else would be a surprise.

This isn’t a surprise.

This is a fucking nightmare and you don’t know how to proceed.

Except that you know exactly how you have to proceed if you want to keep Mandy safe.

You look at Iggy and cock an eyebrow. It makes sense, after all, especially now that he knows you’re not even remotely into chicks, but he shakes his head.

“No way, man! Laura would kill me!”

“Fuck Laura.”

“I did, and now –“ He stops, blushes furiously.

“Now what?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Aw, fuck, Mick, she might be knocked up.”

“Bullshit.”

But when he looks at you, you know it’s not bullshit. Iggy can lie like a fucking politician, but you’ve seen his earnest face a handful of times – even more over the last twenty-four hours, and you know this is serious.

“Shit,” you say, because what else is there?

“Yeah.”

“Does not matter,” Svetlana interrupts. “I choose to marry smart brother; not idiot who stood around with finger up bum.”

The irony of that statement isn’t lost on you and you scoff. “I ain’t gonna fuckin’ marry you, bitch.”

“Then I go to police.”

“You go to the police and I’ll fucking kill you.”

She tilts her head, too self-assured for your liking. “You kill me, you go to jail, just like little sister.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” You turn away to pace in the small space you have, to think shit through, to press the heels of your hands against your forehead as if to push away the oncoming headache. It doesn’t matter, though. None of it fucking matters.

Mandy, Iggy, Gallagher, the whore, Terry …

You turn to face her, and for an instant you see that same fright on her face that had been there yesterday. It doesn’t trigger any sympathy, but you do wonder if she’s more scared of you than she’s letting on.

But that doesn’t matter, either, because all that matters is Mandy.

“I’ll do it.”

\---

The walk home is quiet. There’s traffic, the L, and the slap of your feet against the pavement, but next to you Iggy is silent. He chain smokes through half his pack and you do the same with yours, also silent. Waiting.

You don’t know what for, though. You don’t know if he’s going to clap you on the shoulder and thank you for taking one for the team or try and talk you out of this bullshit. Honestly, you’re not sure which you’d prefer, either.

He stops at the front gate, and you did know that. He’s not coming in, not any time soon.

“You can’t do this,” he says.

Okay. So that’s the way he’s going.

“I gotta, man.”

“No, Mick, you don’t understand –“

You scowl. “What the fuck is there to understand, Ig? I do this, she stays quiet. It’s that simple. This is the only way to protect Mandy and I’m gonna fuckin’ do it.”

He stares at you long and hard, and it unnerves you. Seeing Iggy so serious for such a long period of time is one of the many things fucking you up and proving just how bad this entire situation is.

“I have to do this,” you tell him.

“I did some research,” he says in reply.

“The fuck’re you talkin’ about?”

He steps back and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Everything that happened yesterday, all that stuff Mandy said … I, uh, looked into it.”

_(Dad knows all about rape.)_

“What? You Googled that shit?”

He shrugs. “And some other stuff. Wanted to know exactly what we were dealin’ with.”

You pull out your smokes and throw the packet away when you see it empty. You hold your hand out for his and light up when he passes it to you. “Still not following, Ig.”

He lights up another cigarette for himself and smokes half of it down before he says anything else.

“It was rape.”

Hearing the word sets your teeth on edge, but you play it cool. “No shit, Sherlock. Figured that one out as soon as Mandy spilled her guts.”

“No, I mean …” He stares at you and there’s a look on his face that you’ve never seen before, not even in the last twenty-four hours, and it freezes your insides. “Mick.”

“What? Fucking what, Iggy?”

“He called a fucking whore over here to rape you!”

You step back, but falter slightly, the wind leaving your body as if you’ve been hit. And when you speak, your voice is a breathy whisper. “The fuck did you just say?”

“Yeah, no, that’s – that’s not what it is. It wouldn’t have – she wouldn’t have done it. It’s called – it’s called corrective rape and, shit, it’s Dad. Dad would’ve been the rapist but without actually touching you –“

You force your hearing to stop working, shove the gate open, and head inside. The only reason you don’t lock the door is because you know he’s too chicken shit to follow, and the only reason you didn’t fuck his face up is because you’re hands are still fucking sore.

\---

The whiskey rolls over you, through you, surrounds you in whatever shitty club you’re at, soothes every throb in your body, relaxes every tense muscle, removes every word that won’t stop ringing in your ears.

And the coke … you laugh to yourself as another drip rolls down the back of your throat. It’s good. You’re good. Everything is good.

The guy behind the bar gives you a _look_ when you laugh again, but you don’t give a shit. You’ve got a flask of whiskey in your jacket pocket and at least another three lines in your wallet. You’re fucking good, man.

You take another healthy gulp of the burning liquid and close your eyes to the flashing lights, the pumping music, the guys around you who are either grinding at nothing for money or on each other for fun, and a part of you wants to join. A part of you wants to throw out one more giant _fuck you_ to Terry and really get your gay on.

A smirk plays at your lips and you sway slightly to the thumping beat, but that’s more due to the chemicals in your system than any real desire to get up and dance. Doesn’t matter. Nothing fucking matters when a simple bass drop is enough to send chills down your spine.

“Fuck,” you mutter, and you want, you need, you ache …

“Hey.”

There’s a guy on the seat next to you but you don’t even glance his way. Your body thrums with energy and power and sexuality, but it thrums too loud, and it sounds like Iggy and you’re just not sure you wanna go there.

You laugh again, you drink again, you sway to the music again.

“How’s your dad?”

You stop breathing.

Ian Gallagher is next to you, with his red hair and pale skin and big mouth that you want to reach into and rip his tongue out of …

You punch him.

Your knuckles throb with the impact, but Gallagher falls from his chair and it’s too fucking good not to celebrate so you throw your drink back and get the fuck outta dodge before the douchebag behind the bar can call security on you.

It’s snowing outside, sparkly and slippery on the sidewalk, and you stumble along, going for your smokes, the flask, and your coke all at once.

“Fuck,” you say again, and stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

Your body still thrums, fingers and words plucking and picking at you. You roll your neck, your shoulders, stretch out your back, but all you get is a thick, suffocating, full-body shackle that sounds and feels and looks like Iggy …

“Hey!”

It’s Gallagher. His words ring along with Iggy’s enough that you recognise his voice, enough that it pulls you out of whatever the fuck is choking you.

You huff out a breath, flip him off over your shoulder, and continue down the street. You give up on the coke because you’re high, not stupid, and forget about the smokes because you need something more than that and you aim for the hipflask.

“Mickey!”

Long drink, contented sigh, turn into an alley and look towards the stars. There are no stars.

“No stars.”

There are no fucking stars because you live in the city and you don’t get to see something as natural as a night fucking sky and you vaguely wonder if that’s another thing you can blame on Terry. Or Iggy. Or Ian Gallagher.

“Hey,” he says, right behind you.

“Fuck off.” Your head is still directed at the dark sky, but you know Gallagher hears you just fine. He simply chooses not to listen.

“See, even that’s more acceptable than punching a guy in the face, asshole. What’s your deal?”

What’s your deal?

You could make a list.

Another fucking list.

You laugh, long and loud, and turn to face Gallagher.

“What’s my _deal_?”

“It was just a fucking question, man. You didn’t need to hit me for it.”

He’s got these giant – excessively so – eyes that look hurt and sad, and for a moment he’s nothing more than a kicked puppy, but then your body begins to thrum again, but it’s no longer a rolling vibration and more of a violent shudder that surges from your core out until your hands are in Gallagher’s jacket and you shove him up against the brick wall.

“Bet you feel real good about yourself, don’t ya? Ian Gallagher, fucking hero, saving lives and bringing people back from the dead.”

“Jesus, Mickey.”

You yank at his jacket, rattle him against the wall. Your strength and dexterity are still there, despite your floaty head, but you can’t seem to shut your mouth.

“Fucking hero,” you say again. “Your family proud, Gallagher? Proud of their fag brother who likes saving the lives of rapists and abusers everywhere.”

He pales, impossibly so. “Rapists? What the fuck?”

You let him go and take a step back. “Nothing. Fuck.” You raise your hands and rub at your face, press the heels of your hands into whatever bruises they can find, concentrate on the pain instead of the words, words that thrum and prick and punch …

“Hey.” His voice is lower this time, almost soft. “What happened to your hands?”

You look at your hands, at the red skin and bleach burns, and everything in the world betrays you when your eyes begin to sting, and your nose begins to run.

“Jesus,” you mutter, and wipe at your eyes with your thumb and forefinger.

“Let me take a look,” he says.

You let him. All the fight leaves you, and you let him take one of your hands in his. You watch his face as he looks at your hands and you silently hate the concern that crinkles between his eyebrows.

“These look like chemical burns.”

You shrug. “Someone had to clean up the mess the old man left behind.”

“And you didn’t wear gloves?”

You shrug again and leave it at that.

“C’mon.” He lets go of your hand and goes to leave the alleyway. “My car’s just across the street and my first-aid kit is inside. Let me clean those up for you.”

You only hesitate for a second before you follow him and now you feel like a fucking puppy, being led around by someone stronger, smarter, less fucked up than you.

Iggy’s words make your skin tight and you walk faster to catch up with Gallagher.

“What’d you use?” he asks. “Bleach?”

“Yeah. And whatever else was there.”

He shakes his head and unlocks his car. It’s a shitty Honda Civic that doesn’t have a key fob and that alone makes you feel a little better. He leads you to the sidewalk and opens the passenger seat.

“Sit.”

You sit.

You refuse to look at your hands again. You’re not going to cry in front of the fucking paramedic that saved Terry’s life. You’re not going to cry at all. You’re okay, and the only reason you freaked out before is because just looking at your sore hands fucking hurts. The blistering red is enough to make your eyes water. That’s exactly what happened.

Whatever.

Fucking Iggy.

Gallagher crouches in front of you and digs through his first-aid kit. Fucking boy scout.

“How’d you get these other injuries?”

“Fuck you.”

He ignores that and dribbles something onto a cotton ball. “Hand?”

You hold out your hand and he takes it gently. You shouldn’t notice that – you shouldn’t – but after the last twenty-four hours _gentle_ sticks out, _gentle_ soothes, _gentle_ hurts.

You flinch at the first wipe of the cotton bud and grit your teeth. You blame it on the gentle. You want another drink, but realise you no longer have your flask on you. Did you throw it aside when you grabbed Gallagher? You have no fucking clue.

“Chemical burns can be dangerous, you know?” he says, interrupting your thoughts. “I’m guessing you didn’t wear a mask, either?”

You sniff. “The fuck for?”

“Inhaling that shit can do serious damage, Mickey. Long-term damage.”

You laugh, but this one doesn’t feel like the laugh from the club. “In case you didn’t notice, Gallagher, I’m long-term damaged already.”

“I noticed,” he says, and glances up at meet your eyes. “But shit, who isn’t?”

You know he’s right; everyone in your neighbourhood is damaged in some way or another, but you doubt any of them have been through what you, Mandy, and Ig have been through in the last day and a half.

“Whatever,” you mutter, wincing as he moves onto your other hand.

Silence follows. You wish it didn’t. You don’t want to talk shit with Gallagher, but you do want him to talk shit to you, whether it’s about chemical burns or the next pride parade, you want him to talk.

“You know I’m gonna bandage these up, right? You’re gonna look like a fucking mummy.”

“Fuck off, man, they don’t need to be bandaged,” you say, but without any heat. You’re too relieved that he’s talking again to care.

“Gotta,” he insists. “Cleaning them ain’t gonna be enough, Mickey. I’m gonna apply a shitload of burn cream, too, and give you some to take home with you, okay? You gotta look after this shit.”

“S’just a couple of burns.”

“They’re second-degree burns and they’re all over your hands. You’re fucking lucky you didn’t end up in the hospital.”

You scoff. “Think they’d make me share a room with my old man?”

Gallagher pauses and looks up at your again. He sure does have a lot of freckles. “He’s still alive, then?”

“For now.”

“He’s not gonna make it?”

You look away and say nothing.

“You want him to make it?”

You force yourself to roll your eyes. “Jesus, Gallagher, didn’t you hear a word I said back there?”

“I heard every word you said, and I’ve heard plenty from Mandy over the years,” he says, and you stare intently at his hands as he opens the burn cream. “I just didn’t want to assume what it meant.”

“Generally, if you call someone a rapist, then they’re a fucking rapist.”

“Sure, but there’s usually more to it than that.”

“That doesn’t make it your business, asshole.”

He begins to apply the cream and it soothes and aches. “Mandy hinted at a few things back in the day and I was either too stupid or too stuck in my own problems to realise what she was talking about. I just wanna know that she’s okay.”

Mandy. He’s worried about Mandy.

The relief hits you hard enough that you let out a laugh.

“Don’t you worry about Mandy, Gallagher. She can take care of herself,” you say, but regret it immediately. It’s too much, too much of _not your story to tell_ and you shouldn’t have said it.

He continues with the burn cream and the care and concentration on his face is too much.

“You about done yet?”

“Not even close.”

You can’t remember the last time someone was so careful with you, so soft and gentle, and for a moment, you can remember Iggy, but his words are nothing but a background hum.

“I wanna see you again in two days to check on these,” Gallagher says, moving on to your left hand.

“Yes, doctor.”

He grins and looks up at you through his lashes. “We playin’ doctors and nurses here?”

“Fuck off.”

“Keep your hands dry,” he continues. “Seriously, stay the fuck away from bleach, okay? And anything else that could fuck these up.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to shower and keep my hands dry?”

“Gloves. Something you should’ve used to begin with.”

He finishes up with the cream then takes both of your hands in his and lightly blows on them. You want to pull away, glare at him, ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, but it feels _good_. His chilly breath, the cool cream – together they feel amazing against the blistering burns on your hands.

And it sends a thrill all the way through to your dick.

“Jesus, Gallagher,” you manage to mutter with forced derision and yank your hands away.

He ignores you and grabs your hands back. He’s silent as he bandages each of your fingers and then your palms, and you follow his lead. You stay silent, begin to relax, stare at him.

You need an outlet, that much is clear, and if clubs and coke aren’t it, then you need to find something else. Something like long, expert fingers. Something like hair that you can tug on. Something like denim covered thighs that look far too inviting.

Swallow hard, a small drop of coke, you look away. He’s hot enough that you wouldn’t turn him down under normal circumstances – especially since he saw you in the club and now knows you’re gay – but these aren’t normal circumstances.

“Hop in,” he finally says, packing up his first-aid kit. “I’ll give ya a ride home.”

You don’t want to go home, but you get in the car anyway. What other choice do you have? Snort some more coke and go back to the club? That wasn’t getting you anywhere. You watch Gallagher’s long body as he climbs into the seat next to you and think about him – him helping you, him asking about Terry, him saving Terry.

He puts on his seatbelt, turns the car on, and pulls away from the curb. You look out your window and don’t bother with your seatbelt – not sure you could manage it with your fingers wrapped up – and your body begins to thrum again.

It thrums because Gallagher’s the kind of hot that makes your breath hitch, because he’s been so fucking soft with you that you want to see him hard, because he has the kind of body and voice and manner that could overwhelm and overpower you.

It thrums because you look at him and can’t decide if you want to fuck him in the back seat of his car or strangle him with his seatbelt.

\---

You wake to banging and swearing and, for a split second, think it’s Terry. Your body goes numb before all the aches and pains come rushing back and you groan. You don’t hurt as much now as you did, but it’s definitely the worst beating Terry’s ever given you.

You get out of bed, throw back a couple of mouthfuls of old beer that’s sitting on your bedside table, and rub at your eyes. Try to, anyway. Your bandaged fingers feel better, and so does your face, but your ribs still hurt like fuck.

You take a quick shower – the most uncoordinated one of your life while wearing the gloves Gallagher gave you last night – but it’s enough to wake you up, make you feel almost human again.

You grab some relatively clean jeans from the floor and throw on a t-shirt, before you head into the living room to see what the fuck Mandy is up to. Not that you care. You’re too fucking pleased that she’s up and about. She could be burning the entire house down and you’d be okay with that.

Bacon and coffee wafts through the air and you sigh. Mandy must be back to normal if she’s cooking and cleaning.

And clean she did.

“Holy shit.”

The place isn’t exactly sparkling, but it’s a whole lot nicer than you’ve ever seen it. All the trash is gone, the walls have been wiped down, and the carpet vacuumed. You rub at your forehead; you must’ve been really fucking out of it to have not heard that.

Most importantly, there’s a shaggy, red rug lying in front of the couch, hiding any evidence of what went down two days ago.

You grin and head for the kitchen.

“Fuckin’ aye, Mands –“

Mandy’s not there.

“Good morning, husband,” Svetlana says.

You say nothing for a long time because what the fuck are you supposed to say right now?

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you settle on. “The fuck are you doin’ here?”

“Cleaning, cooking, usual wifely duties.” She smiles, and it looks like she’s going for warm, but barely hits sun-baked. “I assumed you would not appreciate the bedroom wifely duties, so I do this instead.”

“Fuck.”

“Coffee?”

And because you’re at a loss, you wave a hand and say, “Why not?”

She pours you coffee, black, and hands it to you without another word. It’s awkward to hold, but it’s hot and smells strong and you want to ignore everything fucked up and just drink the coffee and eat the food. But …

“What’re you doing here?” you ask again.

“I answer you already.”

“Yeah, wifely duties, but you’re not my fucking wife, lady.”

She shrugs. “Not yet.”

“Jesus.”

“Jesus cannot help you here, I’m afraid. Only me … or a really good lawyer.”

You reach past her and pick up a piece of bacon. “Where’s Mandy?”

“The sister? I have not seen her.”

“She’s still in her bedroom?”

You leave Svetlana in the kitchen and head for Mandy’s room without waiting for an answer, and, yeah, her door is still closed, and you get the feeling it hasn’t been opened in too fucking long.

You bang on it with your entire fist. “Mandy, open the fuck up.”

Nothing. You turn the handle. Locked. Fuck.

You need to do something – drag her out of her fucking room if you have to – but you’re not sure you can. Terry already forced so much on her that you don’t think you could ever make her do anything against her will again.

“Mandy!”

A bang, as if something – a bottle maybe? – is thrown at the door, and you sigh. You shuffle back to the living room, Svetlana and the bacon forgotten until you see her again. You frown and your frown quickly becomes a glare.

“Get the fuck out.”

She side-eyes you. “No way to talk to wife.”

Wife.

Fuck.

You can’t breathe.

Iggy won’t come inside. Mandy’s slowly killing herself. You’re going to marry a whore. Terry might live.

And you can’t breathe.

You go to your room and pull on whatever jacket you can find, dig your boots out from under your bed, and head for the door. You ignore Svetlana, refuse to hear whatever bullshit she throws at you as you storm through the living room and out the front door.

You’re at the bottom of the steps before you notice him.

Ian Gallagher is at the gate, cup holder in one hand, paper bag in the other.

“Mornin’,” he says, and it’s cheerful enough that you hate him for it.

You scowl and yank the gate open. You half hope it dislodges him, sends him sprawling to the ground, but also half hope one of those coffees is for you.

“The fuck’re you doin’ here?”

“You were pretty wasted last night,” he says, and he has no issue with making eye contact while he does it. It’s unnerving. “Figured you could use the coffee.”

Three sips of what Svetlana made doesn’t compare to the idea of real coffee, but you play it cool.

“What’s in the bag?”

He grins. “Donuts.”

“Seriously?”

“What? You don’t like donuts?”

You grab the bag out of his hand. “Who the fuck doesn’t like donuts?”

“Then I assume you’re down for the coffee, too, then,” he says. He hands you one and the tips of his fingers brush yours. “I took a guess and added sugar.”

“Hmm.”

He guessed right, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Wanna walk?” he asks.

You look at him, really fucking look at him, but have no idea what you see. He stares back, and it’s open and unflinching. You don’t know why he’s here, what he wants, why he bought you coffee and donuts and wants to walk with you. Why it’s you, you, you, and not Mandy.

But you go along with all of it because you kind of want to walk with him, too.

“Whatever.” You start down the street and stuff your face with the powdered donut as he lopes along next to you.

“So, uh, in the interest of receiving another punch to the face,” he begins, “how’s your dad?”

You glance at his face, and through the cold flush of winter you can see a hint of bruising. It doesn’t make you smile. And maybe it’s because you’re not high on whiskey and coke, but you don’t punch him in the face for the question this time.

“Dunno,” you mutter. You take a sip of hot coffee before continuing. “Haven’t heard from the hospital, so I assume there’s no change.”

“You haven’t called?”

“The fuck would I do that for?”

“Yeah, I s’pose no news is good news, right?” he says, and hands you a donut.

You watch him screw up the empty paper bag and shove it in his jacket pocket but can’t bring yourself to roll your eyes or come up with a smartass comment. Because it’s _Terry_. Would _good news_ be that he’s improved or that he hasn’t?

Because, really, it has nothing to do with no news being good news and everything to do with you being too fucking pussy to face the fact that Terry might have improved, he might be awake. The longer you can stay ignorant of any update, the happier you’ll be.

“Lookin’ after your hands?” he continues when you say nothing. You hold up your hands for him to inspect, one of them awkwardly holding the coffee cup and the other half a donut, and he grins. “Don’t forget I’m comin’ by tomorrow to change those dressings.”

“Despite all evidence saying otherwise, I’m not entirely useless,” you tell him. “If you wanna tell me where to buy the stuff I can change them myself.”

“I could,” he agrees, “but then you wouldn’t get to see me.”

“Who the fuck says I wanna see you?”

“The boner in your pants when I was on my knees in front of you last night.”

“What the –“ You stop dead and stare at him. You were out-of-your-mind plastered last night, but sobriety seemed to hit and hit hard the moment Gallagher asked to look at your hands and you’re sure there was no boner. You’re _positive_.

You glance around, heart thudding, because you barely remember getting home and everything that happened at the club before Gallagher came along is a blur, so maybe …

He laughs. It’s a deep belly laugh that makes you fight one of your own.

“You’re a fuckin’ dick.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, and continues down the street.

You consider ditching him and heading home, but it doesn’t escape your miserable brain that this is the first time you’ve smiled in … you don’t know how long. Since long before Terry found out about you and everything got extra fucked up.

You finish your donut and lengthen your stride to catch him. You shove at his shoulder with your own when you reach him, but it aggravates a bruise you didn’t know was there and you wince. His grin fades as he stares at you.

“What?” you ask, defensive and uncomfortable. You take a long mouthful of coffee.

His voice is soft when he replies. Gentle. Soft. Worried. “Just wondering if there’s anywhere on that body of yours not covered in cuts and bruises.”

You want to tell him to fuck off, mind his own fucking business, but you don’t. Because this is the most relaxed you’ve been in too long and you don’t have it in you to ruin that. So you swallow back more coffee then throw him a smirk.

“Damn, Gallagher, didn’t pin you to be such a perv.”

He rakes his gaze over you – over all your cuts and bruises, the clumsy way you hold the coffee in one hand and the donut in the other, at the donut sugar you can _feel_ on your lips and nose – and smirks right back. His eyes seem to darken when he meets your gaze again.

“You think that’s bad,” he says, and the way one side of his mouth tilts up into a smile makes your breath hitch, “I’m just gettin’ started, Milkovich.”

You laugh. He’s made you laugh again and it’s stupid and soft and you hate him for it. The same way you hate is bright hair and his pretty freckles and his large hands that go up to try and hide his smile. Then his hand moves, towards you, and swipes at the tip of your nose. It’s nothing. It’s a thumb on your nose and it’s innocent and exhilarating all at once.

“You’re fuckin’ covered in this shit,” he says, and looks down at the sugar on his thumb. You want him to go for your lips next, to swipe the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip once, twice, three times until you get a taste –

He puts his thumb to _his_ lips, uses the barest hint of suction, then grins at you, eyes dark.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, but it’s hoarse and lacking any real meaning.

You turn and start back home because you don’t think you can be alone with him for another minute longer. You _want_ to stay and keep walking with him, but you force yourself not to because you’ve known him since forever – even have a vague memory of playing little league with him – but he’s always been Mandy’s friend, not yours. It shouldn’t be this easy, this good, this hot.

But when he follows, you choose not to stop him.

And it’s nice. It’s not something you’ve ever thought about, ever considered at all, but maybe – just maybe – if Terry doesn’t make it, then this is the kind of thing you could have. Maybe not with Gallagher and maybe not anytime soon, but … maybe.

Iggy’s on the front steps when you get back. He stands up with a frown when he sees you.

“If you’re out here then who the fuck’s been bangin’ around in there?” He breaks into a grin and continues before you can reply. “Mandy finally up?”

“Na, it’s Svetlana.”

“The whore?”

You chance half a glance at Gallagher, but he says nothing. “Yeah, she seems to have made herself at home – tidied up and shit. She put a rug down in the living room if you wanna come in?”

“Better than sittin’ out here,” he mumbles, and heads inside.

You look at Gallagher. You want to tell him to leave because you don’t want to explain the Svetlana situation to him, but you don’t want him to leave. Everything feels calmer when he’s around and you’re still deciding whether you like that or not, but you think you might.

“She made breakfast and coffee,” you offer. “Not as good as the shit you bought, but if you wanna come in …”

He does this weird half shrug, half smile that’s way too fucking endearing, so you turn and head inside before he can see your smile.

“What’s Lifesaver Wild Cherry doin’ here?” Iggy asks when you walk into the living room. He’s in the kitchen already, mouth full of pancakes and eyes on Svetlana’s boobs.

His question makes you pause, even if a false answer is obvious. You can’t very well tell Iggy that you got really fucking high last night, went to Boystown, and then had Gallagher bandage your wounds. Not only is it too fucked up, it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough of a reason for Gallagher to be here, in your house, for you.

It’s not even close to enough to explain why his company causes you to forget about every worry you have.

So you lie.

“He’s here to see Mandy.” You turn to Svetlana. “She up yet?”

“Nope.”

“Is she okay?” Gallagher asks.

“I dunno,” you admit, but here and now, with Iggy as backup, you think it’s time to find out.

You stalk to Mandy’s room and knock on her door.

“C’mon, Mandy, enough is enough.”

Still nothing.

“She asleep?” Iggy asks, head popped around the corner into the hallway.

You scoff. “The only way she’s asleep right now is if she got black-out drunk. Svetlana’s been bangin’ around all morning.”

But, honestly, Mandy being black-out drunk wouldn’t surprise you. Milkoviches don’t have a great track record of dealing with their shit. You take a slow breath and try one more time.

“Mandy, if you don’t open this door then I’m comin’ in even if I have to knock the damn thing down.”

Nothing.

You swallow hard and reach for the handle. It turns, opens, unlocked.

It’s fucking cold in her room, that’s the first thing you notice. Her window is wide open, curtains moving in the small breeze, and a bleak sunlight filtering through.

Then you see Mandy, on her bed, eyes closed, pills and a bottle of vodka on her bed next to her.

Your heart is a sledgehammer in your chest and your mouth goes dry, but no. Not a chance.

“Mandy?”

She’s pale. She’s not moving.

“Gallagher!”

It’s not like when Terry got shot, when a million things happened in the space of a breath – this seems to go on forever, slow motion, dizzying nausea – but it takes all of two seconds to see her and know what she’s done. You rush to her.

You act on instinct – recovery position, yell her name, fingers down her throat – and hope like fuck you get a reaction out of her.

“Don’t do that,” Gallagher says, his hand on your wrist. He gently pulls your fingers out of Mandy’s mouth and moves your entire body away. “It can cause more harm than good. Call 9-1-1.”

It’s instinct again that makes you want to fight him, tell him to fuck off, point out that you need to get whatever’s in her system out, but logic wins. Gallagher’s a paramedic. He knows what he’s doing.

He knows what he’s doing while you … you freeze.

You can hear Iggy behind you, calling for an ambulance again. It doesn’t escape you how different he sounds this time – shaky, shocked, scared – and you fight back whatever’s trying to claw its way out of your throat and stare at Mandy and Gallagher.

He has her on her back, his ear to her mouth, waiting.

“She’s breathing,” he mutters with the tiniest of glances towards you, and you lean against the wall behind you, let it catch you as your legs give out.

\---

This time the emergency room is crowded. It buzzes, a constant noise in your head, right behind your eyes, and you can’t stand it. You can’t stand anything about the place – the cleanliness, the sick people, the endless fucking misery.

You sit, hands clasped and elbows on your knees, and stare at the floor. You won’t look at Iggy, and you sure as fuck won’t look at Gallagher or Svetlana, so you stare at anything else that grabs your attention. Right now, it’s the lightning-bolt shaped scratch on the floor.

But that’s not entirely true; the floor keeps your eyes busy, but your mind won’t stop – Mandy, Svetlana, Gallagher … the fact that Terry is somewhere in this hospital and bringing Mandy here was just plain fucking cruel.

Iggy gets up. You don’t look at him, but you see his feet out of the corner of your eye begin moving again. He’s gone from pacing to sitting three different times now, sitting himself in a different seat each time. You should probably say something to him, help him, but you can’t.

You can’t help him, and you couldn’t help Mandy. Now or then. You thought you had this under control – you cleaned up the blood, you got the whore to shut her mouth, you were somewhat comfortable with who you are – but you didn’t have shit. You still don’t.

“I swear to fuck, Mick,” Iggy says, and it’s the first words he’s spoken directly to you, to anyone, since you got there. You force yourself to look at him. “If she dies and he wakes up, I’ll go into that fucking room and kill him myself.”

You look away and say nothing. Gallagher says nothing and Svetlana says nothing, and Iggy continues to pace.

He won’t need to, though. You won’t put that on Iggy, not when he’s an innocent bystander in all this shit. He won’t need to kill Terry – you’ll make sure of that.

You rub a hand over your face, but quickly lift your head when someone calls Mandy’s name. You shoot to your feet and step forward. Iggy moves to stand so close to you he’s almost on you, and Gallagher and Svetlana hang back a little.

The doctor introduces himself, rattles off a bunch of information you don’t need to know, and then finally says what you want to hear.

“She’ll be fine …”

There’s more. More you should stick around and listen to, but you can’t. Mandy will be fine, and you need to get the fuck out of the hospital now.

\---

Gallagher follows you. You know it’s Gallagher because Iggy wouldn’t leave Mandy and Svetlana doesn’t give a shit.

Not that you can figure out why Gallagher gives a shit. About Mandy, sure, but not you. It’s clear he does, though.

It’s dusk when you leave the hospital. You didn’t realise you’d spent so much time in there, but a poor girl from the South Side overdosing? Not a priority. At least, letting her family know how she was sure as fuck wasn’t a priority.

Your body thrums again as you walk down the street and away from the hospital. Your hands shake and your breath comes out in quick bursts. You want to hit something. You want to hurt everyone around you. You want to hurt yourself.

You turn down the first dark alleyway you come across. Gallagher will follow you, you know this, and you have every intention of hitting him, making him hurt, hurting yourself while hurting him. Instead, you grab at your hands, rip at the bandages Gallagher took the time and effort to put on you. You tear at each one, and your breath catches in your throat each time it tugs at one of your blistered burns.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Gallagher says from behind you. He knows what you’re doing, can see each piece of tape you throw to the ground.

You whirl around and face him. “This is you’re fuckin’ fault, you know?”

“The fuck did I do?” he asks.

“You saved him. You brought that fucker back to life instead of letting him die on the fucking floor like he deserved.”

“You mean I did my job?”

“Fuck you and fuck your fucking job!”

He smiles, as though trying to humour you. “You know, the more you say it the less effect it has.”

“You should’ve let him die.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, but your shock only lasts until he continues speaking. “But what difference would it have made?”

“You’ve got no idea.”

“I know he raped her,” he says. “You made that pretty clear last night.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, turning away. “Bandaging my hands, bringing me coffee … doesn’t make us friends, Gallagher. Now fuck off.”

“And I’m willing to bet he’s the one who covered you in bruises, too,” he continues, following you down the alleyway.

“Fuck off,” you repeat, but it’s getting harder to breathe.

“No.”

“Then I’ll hit you again,” you throw over your shoulder. “Nothin’ stoppin’ me.”

“Except the burns on your fingers.”

You press the heels of your hands to your eyes and you want to scream, you want to yell, you want to fucking cry. Ian Gallagher doesn’t know shit. He doesn’t know how badly Terry fucked up Mandy. He doesn’t know how close Terry came to strangling Iggy to death. He doesn’t know how close Terry came to completely fucking with your life.

_(He knocked me up once.)_

He thinks it’s about Mandy’s rape and your bruises. He doesn’t know about the whore, he doesn’t know about Mandy’s abortion, he doesn’t know Mandy shot Terry …

He doesn’t know shit.

Your breath stutters – short, choppy gasps that do nothing to calm you – and you still want to scream. You still want to hit something.

You scream – a mangled, enraged sound that doesn’t make you feel any better – and you turn and punch the wall next to you. Then you punch it again. And again. You hit it until your knuckles are wet and Gallagher grabs you.

“Stop!” he cries, and then quieter. “Stop.”

“Fuck you.” You struggle in his grip, spin around to face him, and push at his chest. “Fuck off.”

“You need to calm the fuck down,” he says.

“And you need to grow some fucking balls.”

He grasps your biceps in his arms and shoves you back against the wall. “What the fuck is your problem, man?”

“You are, dipshit. Seriously, Gallagher, stop pussyfooting around and make a fucking move already.”

You don’t know where your words are coming from – your mouth is moving faster than your brain – all you know is that you need something, and that something is for Gallagher to either fuck you or hit you. At this stage, you don’t care which.

“Stop being such a little bitch,” you goad him.

“Fuck you,” he says, sneer on his face.

“I’d love to, man, really fucking would, but you’re always so gentle.” You slip your fingers into the belt loop of his jeans and tug him towards you. You can’t feel him, but your dick strains against your jeans, stupidly hard. “So fucking _soft_.”

His eyes are heavy as he stares down at you. “You’re an asshole.”

“What I am is waiting, Gallagher, ready and willing. Do something.”

“Jesus,” he breathes, his forehead against yours, and maybe you’re finally getting somewhere.

“Do something,” you say again, and when you roll your hips forwards, his are there to meet you.

He groans, his hands sliding up your arms to wrap around the back of your neck, and he moves his head, slides his cheek against yours, nuzzles into you. And it’s nice, but it’s _gentle_ and it’s _soft._ You need so much more. You turn your head and bite at the corner of his jaw. Hard.

“Fuck,” he says, but it’s not a complaint.

His body shudders, moves closer to yours, and you move your lips, your teeth, your hips. You nip at his throat and suck at the soft skin below his ear and rock your body into his, and the sounds that come from him make your knees weak, your body hot, everything in you desperate to be the reason for those noises again and again.

This is what you need.

This is what you want.

“C’mon, Gallagher,” you whisper into his ear. “Do something.”

His hands move to grip your waist and it provides a moment of clarity, of steadiness, and you suck in a breath, push it away. You don’t want clarity. You don’t want to be steady. You want to need and feel and lose yourself in Ian Gallagher.

But when he moves his hands again, up, up, beneath your jacket and shirt, long fingers against your bruised ribs, he’s still soft and gentle and so fucking tender you want to cry again. It sends euphoric chills down your spine and you want to hate it, need to hate it.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop bein’ so soft?” you mutter and rake your teeth over the shell of his ear, move your own hand to scratch your nails at the hair at the back of his neck.

His fingertips dig in slightly, but nothing more. “Pretty sure soft is what you need right now, Mick.”

Clarity.

Steadiness.

It could be his touch, it might be his words, it’s for sure the way he calls you _Mick_ , but you can’t deal. You can’t deal with any of it.

You thread your fingers into his hair and yank. He hisses and moves back to meet your gaze.

“Fuck you.”

“Back to that again?”

You shove him away and he goes easy. “Go to hell, Gallagher.”

“Mick, c’mon –“

“Na.” You start down the alleyway in the direction of the hospital. “You can’t give me what I want so I might as well go fuck myself. Maybe you should do the same, asshole.”

He follows. “You’re angry, I get it, but is having an angry fuck next to a dumpster really how you wanna make yourself feel better?”

No. Having an angry fuck with Ian Gallagher is how you wanted to make yourself feel better, and you don’t give a shit where it happens, but …

You spin to face him. Thrumming. “I didn’t ask you to follow me here. Fuck, I didn’t even ask you to come to the hospital, so do me a favour and leave me the fuck alone. Got it?”

“Mick –“

He grabs your arm when you turn to leave and steadiness, clarity, thrumming – it all fucks with you, with every inch of you until you can’t control your breathing or your limbs and you sucker punch him.

“Stay the fuck away from me.”

He’s still gasping for breath when you leave the alleyway.

\---

Iggy and Svetlana are gone when you get back to the hospital, so you ask to see Mandy and a nurse points you in the right direction. You pause at her door, though, mind flitting between the feel of Gallagher’s hands on your skin and the sight of Mandy unconscious on her bed, and guilt rushes over you. You swallow back the sick feeling in your mouth and open her door.

Mandy’s sitting in the hospital bed, back propped up with pillows, and she’s pale and gaunt and unattractive. It hurts to think it, hurts more to see it, but it’s right in front of you and there’s no getting away from it. The only thing you can do is accept it and get her through it.

“Hey,” she says, and smiles.

You close the door and move further into the room, but you stop in your tracks when you get past the curtain and see Svetlana in the chair next to Mandy’s bed.

“The fuck are you doin’ here?”

“You and silly brother run off, so I stay.”

You look at Mandy. “Ig’s not here?”

Mandy shrugs and Svetlana answers. “He take phone call after you leave. Then run away like chook.”

“You mean chicken?”

She waves a hand at you as if it doesn’t matter either way and you suppose it doesn’t. Neither does her being there. You move to Mandy’s bed and sit on the edge.

“What the fuck, Mands?”

“It’s not what you think.”

You raise both eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“I know, okay?” she says, wincing at your words. “I fuckin’ know how it looks, but it’s not. I didn’t – I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

“Oh, please, it took Ian fucking forever to figure out if you were breathing or not, and now you’re tellin’ me it was an accident?”

“Ian?” she repeats, completely missing the point.

“You overdosed,” you say, pointing an accusing finger at her.

“Accidentally.”

“Bullshit.”

She sighs and looks at Svetlana. “Could you give us a minute?”

“Of course,” Svetlana says, and pats Mandy’s hand. “I’ll get coffee.”

You ignore her, but Mandy watches her leave. Once she’s gone, her gaze snaps back to you, hard as steel.

You jump in before she can say anything. “You guys fucking friends now?”

“She told me the deal you made. It’s fucked up.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” You get more comfortable on the bed and run a hand through your hair. “Whatever it takes to shut her up, though.”

Mandy’s silent for a long moment, and when she replies you wish she hadn’t. “It’s not like I’ve never considered it.”

Your throat goes dry, but you push through it and play dumb. “Considered what?”

“Killing myself.” And she says it so easily that a lump forms at the back of your throat. She reaches out, grabs your hand. “Wanna know why I never did it?”

“Because you love your brothers so goddamn much?”

She grins at your sarcasm. “Because I refuse to let Terry win. I’ve always refused to let him win, and that’s not about to change.”

“He might live.” You still don’t know, and isn’t that fucked up? He could be awake, in this very hospital, recovering just down the hall, and you’d have no idea.

“He might,” she agrees, “and that’s what’s fucked me up these last few days. I feel more awful thinking about what’ll happen if he lives after I shot him, than I do about him dying after I shot him. Do you get how fucked up that is, Mick? I’m more scared of what he’ll do to me if he lives than if I go down for killing him.”

“Jesus, Mandy.” You rub at your eyes with the tips of your fingers, only realising then how badly they hurt. You shouldn’t have pulled the bandages off. “We’ll figure it out, okay? Now that I know what he did to you, there’s no way in hell I’m letting him touch you again. I fuckin’ promise.”

“I know, Mick,” she says, but her voice is so dejected, so resigned, that you hate yourself for not figuring out what he was doing to her years ago.

“We’ll go somewhere,” you continue. “Just you, me, and Ig. And Svetlana, too, I guess.”

“And Laura.” Mandy smiles. “Iggy wouldn’t come without her.”

“Yeah, sure, Laura and the kid.”

“Seriously? Someone’s procreated with Iggy?”

There’s so much to talk about, so much serious shit to sort though, but at that moment, the only thing you give a shit about is Mandy. She’s smiling and her cheeks are getting some pink back and she’s fucking alive.

You don’t care what it takes, you’ll keep her safe.

Keeping her safe means forgetting about Gallagher, kicking Svetlana out when she comes back, and spending the night in the shitty hospital chair next to Mandy’s bed. Because, with Terry somewhere in this hospital, there’s no way in hell you’re leaving your sister alone.

\---

You don’t sleep. After Svetlana brings back coffee and leaves again, you sit in the chair, let Mandy play on your phone, and watch her as subtly as you can.

Which is not at all.

“You keep staring at me like that and I’ll download Grindr,” she says, not looking up from whatever game she has open.

You take the hint and turn away, but the second she falls asleep you keep one eye on her and one on the door. You doze a couple of times, never more than five minutes at once, and never without waking with a start, terrified something has happened.

It only took you seconds to realise everything awful that could happen had already happened.

You’re exhausted when you leave in the morning. Mandy kicks you out when a doctor comes in and announces that a shrink is on his way down to evaluate her. Procedure. Whatever. You don’t like it. You don’t think she does, either, but she doesn’t put up much of a fight. She seems defeated, resigned to the fact that most people are going to assume the worst and not let her leave until they’re sure she’s not about to off herself.

The sun is straining against dark clouds when you ride home on the L, and your body wants to sleep, fights against your brain and every survival instinct you have until you get up and begin to pace between the empty seats.

You want a shower. You want to sleep. You want a bottle of whiskey.

You want to make things right with Gallagher.

“Fuck,” you mutter, getting off the L at your stop and rubbing at your eyes. You start for home and scowl at the entire world.

It’s bullshit. It’s this strange desire you’ve never had before for anyone other than your siblings, and even then, it’s rare. This need, this longing, to make sure you haven’t fucked up too much this time.

It’s fleeting, though. You make it fleeting because you can’t worry about that right now, you can’t concentrate on Gallagher and whatever the fuck you tried to pull with him last night. You need to think about Mandy. Only Mandy.

And Iggy, who’s sitting on the front steps, looking like death. He’s pale, eyes wider than usual, and his clothes seem to hang off his body.

“What’s goin’ on?” you ask immediately. “What happened?”

Because he looks like shit. And he left the hospital before seeing Mandy. And his eyes are rimmed red and you don’t remember the last time Iggy cried.

“Laura’s pregnant. She’s definitely pregnant and she’s keeping the baby.”

“Okay …” You trail off, not sure what to say.

A kid isn’t your idea of a good time, and Iggy hadn’t shown any real excitement when he told you about it, but he’d told you about it. He had seemed sure, and now he’s … he’s standing in front of you completely fucking broken and it’s up to you to make sure he’s okay.

“Okay,” you begin. You rub a hand over your face, trying to wake yourself up. “Congrats, I guess.”

“Congrats? Seriously, Mick?”

You head inside and he follows. “I don’t know what else you want me to say, man. Is this why you took off last night?”

“You took off first, asshole,” he says, but continues right away. “Laura called. She was bleeding, so I took her to the emergency room closest to her house and they said everything was fine, it happens sometimes … shit, Mick, they even showed us a fucking heartbeat!”

He paces along the rug Svetlana had put down, not seeming to care about the stain beneath, but stressing himself to the point of panic. You wait him out, though; sometimes Iggy needs to go until he explodes and sometimes, he’ll overwhelm himself into silence.

“She’s got another week or two where she can safely get rid of it,” he continues, and it’s like you’re not even in the room. “After that shit gets a little more real, you know?”

“More real than a kid?”

“She doesn’t want to terminate, anyway. Laura. Fuck, she wants to fucking keep it, but –“ He stops and stares at you. “What if it turns out like you?”

You’re wide awake now. There’s no guessing what Iggy’s talking about because you know exactly what the fuck he means, but what you don’t understand is where it comes from. At the hospital, after the shooting, he was cool about it. The last two days he’s been fucking cool about it.

“The fuck did you just say?”

“Dad tried to kill you for liking dudes,” he says. “Your own fucking dad, Mick. What if … what if it’s my kid and Terry finds out –“

“Shit, Ig.”

“Just a fuckin’ kid, man, I can’t let him do that to a fucking kid.”

“We won’t.” You step forward, grip his shoulder in the hand that hurts least. “We’ll figure something out, okay. Promise, Ig.”

It doesn’t escape you that you made the same promise to Mandy not twelve hours ago and you have no idea how to go through with it. But Iggy stares at you and his eyes are wet and everything is such a fucking mess.

“It’ll be okay,” you tell him. “We’ll figure something out, but if worst comes to worst, Terry will be long dead by the time the kid’s old enough to come out, right?”

You’re talking out of your ass. You’re no expert on coming out or when someone will be ready to do it. Shit, the only person you’ve physically come out to is Tony Markovich. Everyone else found out without your consent.

Iggy nods at your words, but he doesn’t look sure. “Yeah, yeah, the old man should be outta the picture by then.”

“You gotta chill out, man. You can’t go freaking out like this. It’s just gonna freak out Laura and then put stress on the baby.”

And it stresses you the fuck out, too, because Iggy’s losing his shit and Mandy’s already lost hers. You’ve done what you can to keep everyone sane, to keep everyone on the same page, but everything’s so fucked up and there’s nothing you can do about it.

“Go see Laura,” you tell him, curling yours hands into fists and relishing in the sting of your burns. “Make sure she knows you’re on board, whatever happens.”

He nods and leaves without another word and you let out a long, exhausted _fuck_. You strip off your jacket and shoes, head for the shower, and take five breaths. You hold them, tight in your chest, until it hurts, and turn the shower on as hot as it will go.

It’s either that or break the mirror.

\---

You put your dirty clothes into the washer after your shower and only realise then that Mandy’s coat and gloves still haven’t been washed. You want to get it done, need to get them clean, but the idea of going into her bedroom again sickens you. She’s going to be fine, but you can’t bring yourself to go back in there and see the empty pill and liquor bottles.

See the damage she did to herself.

Instead, you put on your oldest jeans and softest tee, intent on smoking some weed and getting a little drunk before heading back up to the hospital. Not too drunk. Just enough to take the edge of the _hospital_ off. You get to the couch, baggie in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other, when there’s a knock at the door.

“Fuck.”

Because you didn’t put Mandy’s coat and gloves in the washer and you’re holding non-medicinal weed in one hand you’re sure it’s going to be the cops. That’s just the ironic cherry to top off the last three days, so why wouldn’t it be?

It’s not.

Weed stuffed into the couch cushions, you open the door to Ian Gallagher. He stands tall, shoulders back and chin high. Like he’s ready for a fight.

You don’t have any fight left to give him.

“Hey.”

Everything about him seems to soften with your one word and you realise he _was_ ready for a fight, ready for you to turn him away. But you won’t, and when he smiles – so fucking soft – you know that you can’t.

“Hey, Mick.”

You like the way he calls you _Mick_. Last night it was too much and not enough, but now, right here in the doorway of the house where your old man beat the shit out of you for being gay, it’s fucking gold.

“What are you doin’ here?” you ask, just like you did yesterday, but there’s no bite to it this time. The question is genuine because you didn’t expect to see him again after last night.

He holds up the first aid box he’s carrying. “Checkin’ on your hands. Remember?”

It takes you too many seconds of staring at the smattering of freckles over his nose to figure out what he’s talking about. Freckles that scatter onto his cheeks and ears. You wonder if they’re everywhere.

You clear your throat. “Right. Yeah, I remember.”

“And since I know you haven’t looked after them the way you should have, we’re gonna be starting from scratch.”

He’s smiling. It would be so easy to tell him to fuck off, slam the door in his face, insist that you’re not a fucking pussy and you don’t need his goddamn help all the while reluctantly letting him inside.

So easy to keep pretending.

You swallow heavily and stare at him. He stares right back, no judgement, no anger, no negativity at all. Just those big eyes looking all soft and gentle. And, for once, you’re okay with it.

You open the door wider. Let him in. A peace offering.

You’re so sick of pretending.

“Wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” you admit, and it feels good.

“It’s gonna take more than what happened last night to keep me away, man.”

You sit on the couch and refuse to meet his gaze when he takes off his jacket and sits next to you. “I was an asshole. Wouldn’t blame ya if you never wanted to speak to me again.”

“You were goin’ through some shit,” he says. You watch him reach for the bottle of vodka, uncap it, and take a sniff. “You got anything better than this?”

You dig the baggie out and hand it to him without a word. His grin is blinding, and you watch his nimble fingers roll the joint with more precision than you could on a good day. He lights up, takes a long hit, then sinks into the couch cushions. And he looks fucking amazing doing it.

“It’s been, like, three days since your old man got shot,” he says, and hands you the smoke. “Follow that up with your injuries, how fucked up you were at the club the other night, and what happened with Mandy … you were just going through some shit.”

It’s not an excuse. It’s not even any different to what he first said about it, but when he says it, it sounds right. You _were_ going through some shit. Gallagher seems to get that.

“S’no excuse for me being such a dick, though,” you say.

“Maybe. But maybe you made some good points, too.”

You cock both eyebrows and take a long pull of the joint because that’s the perfect reason not to reply. Gallagher gives you a onceover and shrugs.

“Maybe I was bein’ a little bitch, unable to give you what you wanted. What you needed. Even though I wanted to.”

“Jesus, Gallagher.”

He grabs the smoke from you and his fingers linger longer than necessary. “All I’m saying is that maybe I was an asshole, too. You were going through some shit and I reacted badly to your actions.”

“ _Going through some shit._ That’s the medical term, huh? In your trained, professional opinion?”

He grins. “Damn straight.”

You rub a hand over your face and lean your head against the back of the couch. “How about we just forget last night ever happened, yeah? All of it can go and jump off a fucking cliff or something.”

“Well. Maybe not all of it.” You turn your head to look at him and his position on the couch mirrors yours. He smiles – soft, gentle – and nudges his knee against yours. “Some of it’s worth remembering.”

“Oh yeah?” Your voice is breathless, stupid.

“I’ve seen you before,” he blurts out, and the only word to describe his blush is _pretty_. Again, your eyebrows have a mind of their own, and you fight back a smile at how flustered he gets.

“Gonna have to be more specific, Gallagher.”

“What I _mean_ ,” he says, big smile, eyes crinkled, “is that I’ve seen you at the clubs before. Before the other night. And I feel like that’s something you should know.”

Your heart somehow drops and accelerates at the same time. It takes you too long to remind yourself that you’re safe, that Terry’s not there, that Gallagher insinuating you were at a gay club is pretty fucking tame compared to what you tried to get him to do to you last night.

“Before when?” you finally ask, taking what’s left of the joint and finishing it.

“Just sometimes. First time was a couple of years ago – thought I was hallucinating, to be honest.” He grins. “I’d just dropped a tab of E, so you can imagine how that went down.”

“A couple years ago?” you repeat, and you’re thrumming again – your body, your mind, your heart.

“Yeah, and then, I dunno, every couple of months I’d get a glimpse of you. In passing, you know. I always made sure to stay clear.”

“Why?”

He stares at you – soft, gentle. “I wasn’t sure you’d be happy to see me. I mean, we’re from the same neighbourhood and you weren’t out, so …”

“Mandy –“

“She won’t find out from me,” he swears, and how true that is fucks with everything you’ve got.

“You never told her.” It’s not a question. You know he never told her because you know your sister, and the look on her face when she heard the things Terry said to you was utter disbelief.

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

“Wasn’t my place,” he says with a smile.

You want to kiss him. It’s not a feeling you’re used to; wanting to fuck a guy, be fucked, sure, but not this … never this. You sneak a glance at his mouth, lick at your own lips, then meet his gaze again when he continues speaking.

“I know how to keep a secret, Mick.”

“Yeah, I guess you do.”

And you almost want to tell him everything – Mandy shooting Terry, the whore, _everything_. But you can’t for the same reason he never told Mandy about you; it’s not your place. This is a secret you, Mandy, and Iggy must keep for each other just as much as yourselves. So, you stare at him and you _want_ without knowing exactly what it is you want.

He reaches over and takes the roach from you, crushes it into one of the many ashtrays on the coffee table. You watch because you can’t look away – from his pale wrist, his muscled back, the tendons of his neck – and you _want_. You know exactly what you want.

But it still shocks you when he sits back, reaches across you, and grabs your hand – soft, gentle – in his own.

“I need to fix these up.”

“Don’t worry about ‘em.”

He huffs. “And let you think I only came over to smoke your weed and hit on you? Not a chance.”

“I remember smokin’ weed, but I’m pretty fuzzy on you hittin’ on me,” you mutter right as he drags two fingers across your palm. And it’s nothing, the simplest of movements, but the weed must be kicking in because _fuck_.

He stares at you for a long time before answering and the weed gives you the courage you need to stare back.

“Guess I’m gonna have to up my flirting, then.”

“I guess so.”

“No time like the present,” he murmurs.

He lowers his head but keeps his eyes on you and brings your hand to his mouth, your wounds to his lips, and kisses. One knuckle, two, three. He turns your hand over, still staring up at you, and slowly – achingly, torturously slowly – brushes a kiss to your palm.

“Fuck, Ian.”

“You gotta start lookin’ after yourself, Mickey.” He’s close. So fucking close.

“Sure, man, whatever you say.”

He turns your hand, holds it to his cheek, presses in. “Whatever I say, huh?”

You swallow hard, fingers itching to slide into his hair, bring him closer. The feel of his soft cheeks, his stubbled jaw, make you fucking melt.

“Anything.”

And that’s as close to honesty as you can get because you’ve spent the last three days holding it together for Mandy and for Iggy and to keep the cops and Svetlana off your back. You’ve kept your shit together because everyone else needed you to, and if this is it, if this is you letting yourself need something, then you’re going to do it and you’re going to do it with Ian.

Otherwise needing something might turn into falling apart and falling apart will turn into breaking down and you can’t. You won’t.

He looks at you, pupils blown, lips wet. Curls your hand into his own and lowers them into his lap. “All those bruises on you … when was the last time someone made you feel good?”

You say nothing. You don’t know the answer. You lick your dry lips and watch with heavy lids as Ian’s fingers leave your own, reach for your face, stroke against your bruised cheekbone. Your breath quickens, but you still say and do nothing. You watch Ian, eyes flitting from his eyes to his freckled cheekbones and back again, and he never once looks away.

He pauses, though, his fingertips at your jaw, his thumb on your bottom lip.

“You’ve been through some shit,” he whispers, using the term of the day. “I can stop if you want?”

“Don’t.” It’s choked, honest, broken. It’s all you’ve got to give him.

He doesn’t ask for anything more.

His hand doesn’t move, but his thumb brushes your lip, just once, and your body moves without permission. Your tongue slides out, swipes at the pad of Ian’s thumb, and his entire body shudders at the contact.

“Jesus,” he breathes, gaze glued to your mouth, and you want to drop to your knees, undo his pants, show him everything else your mouth and tongue can do, but you don’t move.

Because it doesn’t feel right to do that. Whatever’s happening between you and Ian in that moment doesn’t belong in the same category as an impulsive blow job for the sake of showing him how talented your mouth is. What’s happening between you and Ian in that moment is so, so much more.

It’s intense and it’s heated and it’s mind-bogglingly arousing because the way he looks at your mouth … you know he wants to kiss you, you know he will kiss you, and that alone turns you on more than anything ever before.

And when he finally does it – when he swoops forwards and captures your bottom lip between his own – it’s heady and suffocating, reckless and zealous. Your breath mingles with his, and it’s somehow both more and less than kissing all at once; there’s no tongue, no deep make-out session, but you’re sighing and Ian’s panting and his nose bumps yours, his forehead nudges at yours, and his lips – Jesus fucking Christ, _his lips_ – move and hover and slide over your own with such fucking finesse that you feel drunk.

Drunk on spit-slicked lips and a breathy moan, on large hands and gentle fingers, on a hard body that’s not nearly close enough.

Drunk on Ian Gallagher.

You reach for him, hands on either side of his beautiful face, and you _feel_ ; you feel his sharp jawline, his hollowed cheeks, his smooth ears. You touch and explore, and it’s his fucking face. It shouldn’t be so amazing, but it is. He is. And you want more.

You surge up, into him, against him, and he takes the hint, deepens the kiss. His tongue slips out, licks at your lower lip, and you drop your jaw, let him in, reach out to meet him. A shiver. Honest-to-God goosebumps splay across your back and your entire body bucks, desperate to feel him.

But he’s next to you, his thigh against yours, chest turned awkwardly towards you. You want him on top of you, beneath you, inside you. You want anything and everything he will ever give you. And the kiss – _the kiss_ – is more than just a kiss now. It’s heavy groans, it’s your tongue in his mouth and his in yours. It’s grasping and pulling and _closer, more, please_.

Until it isn’t. Until your phone rings and Ian pulls back.

“Uh-uh,” you murmur, and slide your fingers into his hair, grip tight, hold him to you.

He chuckles against your mouth and you can feel it in your dick. “It might be important,” he says, but his words are slurred and husky.

“No such thing.”

You move your mouth away from his to press hot kisses along his jaw and, just as you did the night before, you bite. Softer, this time. Just enough for him to feel the dig of your teeth, to suck in a breath, to buck his own body into the empty air between you.

“Fuck, Mick.”

Your phone starts ringing again and, shit, you hadn’t even noticed it had stopped. Ian turns his head to capture your lips again, a deep kiss that you feel in your fucking bones, and then pulls away.

“Answer your phone.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He smiles. “It might be Mandy.”

Fuck him. “Shit,” you mutter. Yeah reach onto the table for your phone and ignore the boner in your jeans. It is Mandy, and that helps.

“What?” you ask, not bothering with pleasantries. She said it was an accident and that she’s fine. She doesn’t need you treating her any different than usual.

“You said you’d bring me lunch,” she starts in right away. “And I want some fuckin’ lunch. Have you seen the shit they serve here? Jesus Christ, Mickey, it looks like something Iggy threw up after a night partying.”

You wince at the thought and pull the phone away from your ear to glance at the time. Shit.

“Shit, yeah, sorry.”

“ _Shit, yeah, sorry_ ,” she mimics. “The fuck is that? I don’t want your apology, asshole, I want a meatball sub.”

She hangs up without another word, and when you look at Ian, he has this stupid grin on his face that you want to kiss off. It occurs to you, with a swoop in your chest, that you can. You can.

You don’t, though, because it’s dangerous. Kissing Ian is dangerous and exhilarating and if you start again now, you’ll never get back up to the hospital because you will never fucking stop.

“I gotta get back up to the hospital,” you say. “Mandy wants some lunch.”

His smile grows. “Mind if I tag along? I was gonna visit today anyway.”

The fact that he came to you before going to Mandy should piss you off. He’s Mandy’s best friend, isn’t he?

But it doesn’t. Because he’s not just Mandy’s best friend anymore. Now, he’s … you don’t know what he is, but he’s something and it’s yours.

\---

The ride to the hospital is sly smiles and low chuckles, thighs pressed together and shoulders knocking. No one else on the L matters because you’re sitting next to Ian and he barely looks at anyone but you.

It’s nice. It’s new and weird, something you’re not at all used to, but you like it.

You like him.

There’s a _Subway_ two stops from the hospital, and Ian easily talks you into grabbing a bite to eat before getting Mandy her lunch. And it shouldn’t be so easy to say yes to him, because it’s basically a fucking date, but it is easy because he smiles and that’s all it fucking takes.

And then you grab Mandy her lunch and walk the rest of the way with Ian. With Ian, who you just had lunch with. Who you made-out with. The entire situation fucks with your mind and makes you want to grin like an idiot, but you keep your shit together, not willing to let your thoughts take over or look like a fucking fool.

Ian plays it cool, too. He talks about nothing and everything and doesn’t fucking shut up, and it’s so goddamn endearing that you don’t once tell him to stop. You walk along beside him, half listening, and simply _be_.

Even when you get to the hospital, and Mandy’s too busy stuffing her face and talking to Ian to tell you how it went with the psych team, it’s okay. It’s okay because there’s a warm, pleasant feeling in the pit of your stomach. One you’ve never felt before, but like entirely too much.

Then the door to Mandy’s room opens and Svetlana walks in.

“Gotta take a piss,” you say, getting to your feet.

You don’t want to be around for introductions, or awkward conversations, so you hope that, by leaving, they’ll skip all of that shit and it won’t be an issue. And then maybe Svetlana won’t be an issue, because if there’s one thing you haven’t thought about while spending time with Ian, it’s that you’re supposed to marry her sometime soon.

You plan to head outside for a smoke, to clear your head, grow a set of balls and stop staring at Gallagher like he’s God’s gift to you. But you stop when you come face-to-face with the doctor who operated on Terry.

He doesn’t notice you; barely moves to the side to get past you. But you can’t move. Your feet have attached themselves to the floor and you can’t leave even though you so desperately want to leave.

You want to go home, find some more weed, get high as fuck and drink everything in sight. You want to rip up the carpet, burn everything in Terry’s room, get rid of any part of him that’s still in the house. You want to punch another wall.

“Are you okay, sir?”

You look at the nurse. Blonde, cute, wearing blue scrubs that match her eyes, and words come out without thought.

“Could you tell me where to find Terry Milkovich?”

\---

Terry looks dead.

Pale. Thin. Tubes going in and out of places you don’t want to think about.

You stand over him, stare down at him, and for the first time in your life, you’re not afraid to be in the same room as him. It won’t last – once he’s up and about again, you’ll go back to being terrified and pathetic. You’ll back down on everything that’s happened the last few days, swear to your old man that you were fucked up, you’ve since seen the fucking light, and it’s girls, boobs, pussy …

“Fuck.”

You can’t do that. You won’t do that. Not to yourself, Mandy, or Iggy. There’s too much at risk now, and it’s not just you and your sexuality.

And, shit, maybe he won’t even wake up. You lift your gaze to his mouth, where a thick tube runs down his throat, breathes for him. How easy it would be …

“Ah, the nurse mentioned someone was in here.”

You spin around and your heart leaps inside your chest. “Uh, hey.”

“He’s a relative, I assume?” the doctor asks, but she’s got an amused smile on her face, as though it’s something people are supposed to ask but she doesn’t actually give a shit.

“Sperm donor,” you mutter, unwilling to admit to anything else.

“Right. Well, you’ll be pleased to know that we’ll be taking the endotracheal tube out of your father later today.” When you give her nothing but a blank stare, she nods and continues. “We’re going to see if he can breathe on his own.”

“Right.” You look back at Terry, hate filling your core. “And if he does?”

“Then he’s on his way to recovery.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we may need to do more tests.”

You rub a shaky hand across your mouth. “What do you think’ll happen?”

“I don’t like to give out false hope,” she says, “but I’m fairly optimistic.”

 _Fairly optimistic_.

Your entire body trembles and you grip the rails at the foot of the bed. Fuck. You need to plan, make a new list. You need to figure out what the fuck you’re going to do and how the fuck you’re going to keep Mandy and Iggy safe. You need to go home and pack everything and just go from there.

You need to remember how to breathe.

You suck in some air, and your chest hurts the whole time, but you need to keep going. You need to do something. You need …

You leave. You spin on your heels and leave the room where Terry is lying in a bed, recovering – fucking _recovering_ , Jesus fucking Christ – from a gunshot wound, and you get the fuck out of there. Out of the room, straight to the elevator, and down, down, down.

Everything moves down with you – your heart sinks, your eyes close, your body sags. Everything is low, a downward spiral, because Terry Milkovich’s doctor is _fairly optimistic_ that he’s going to recover. And once he recovers, he’s going to come for you and Mandy and Iggy.

He will kill you. All three of you.

And it’s not even him killing you that scares you, not really. It’s what he’ll do before he pulls the trigger, what utter torture he’ll inflict on Mandy, and what he might to do Iggy’s unborn kid, and what whore he’ll call to – to …

“Fuck,” you mutter.

You wipe both hands over your face and exit the elevator, leave the hospital, stop dead at the sight of Ian.

And something changes. It’s not like seeing Ian fixes everything – every fear, every worry, every fucking nightmare you’re currently living through – but it soothes you. Sends a wave of calm from your aching head, over your tense shoulders, right down to your heavy feet.

Things don’t seem quite so bad.

“Hey,” you say, walking up behind him.

When he turns to face you, his eyes are hard. “Just met your fiancé.”

You freeze. Everything in you chills and ice runs through your veins. You want to tell him it’s not what it seems, to explain it all, to beg him to forget whatever he heard and go back an hour, two, and make out with you on the couch again.

But upstairs, lying in a hospital bed, is Terry and his doctor is _fairly optimistic_. And lying in another bed, is Mandy, who accidentally overdosed on you-still-don’t-know what, because everything that’s just happened is too fucking much. And somewhere in this fucking city, is Iggy, who’s gonna have a kid and is terrified of what Terry will do to the kid if it turns out anything like you.

And it’s too much.

You don’t have it in you to fight. Not even for Ian.

“Well,” you finally say, “now you’ve known her for almost as long as I have.”

His expression at your sarcasm is disbelief. “Seriously? That’s it?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, man.”

You’re just so fucking tired.

“Maybe you could explain to me why we were kissing a couple of hours ago when you’re supposed to be marrying someone?”

You can’t. You shrug.

“A shrug. That’s all I’m getting?”

He sounds hurt and he looks hurt and he is fucking hurt. You’re doing it, you’re hurting him, but you can’t seem to stop. You can’t even find the energy to stop. He’s been the one bright spot – soft, gentle – of the last three days, and now it’s done, ruined, over. Because of Terry. Always because of Terry.

“We’ve only been hanging out a couple of days,” you mutter. “Ain’t like I fucking proposed.”

You’re just so fucking tired.

“Not to me, anyway.”

You didn’t propose to Svetlana, either, but he doesn’t need to know that shit. You need to protect Mandy and Iggy, and you’ll do whatever the fuck it takes to do so. But you can’t tell him that. You can’t tell him anything even though, two hours ago, you thought that maybe one day you’d be able to tell him everything.

“Sorry, I guess. Probably should’ve told ya.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, stares at you long and hard.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“What d’ya mean?”

“I mean what aren’t you telling me? And don’t bullshit me, Mickey. Even if we hadn’t been hanging out lately, I know you well enough to know this isn’t you.”

“Why not? Because I’m gay?”

There are people everywhere. You don’t care.

“I’m not talking about whoever the fuck that was in Mandy’s room,” he says, and steps closer. “I’m talkin’ about your attitude. You’re acting like you don’t give a shit and you’re doin’ a fucking good job of it. Why?”

You don’t know. Maybe it’s easier this way, in the long run. Easier for Ian to step away now, before you marry a whore to keep the truth about your sister shooting your paedophile, rapist dad a secret. Before Terry wakes up and kills you.

Maybe because you thought this thing with Ian was separate – separate to Terry, to Mandy, to Svetlana.

Maybe, right then, you don’t have it in you to give a shit.

“I dunno, Gallagher. Maybe I’m just fucked up.”

You turn and walk away.

You’re just so fucking tired.

\---

You go back up to Mandy’s room. You can’t face home, you don’t know where Iggy is, and you refuse to go back to Terry’s room. Mandy is the only safe option, because if you don’t go there, you’ll head out and score more coke, drink more whiskey, get too fucked up and do something stupid.

“There you are!” she says as soon as you walk through the door. You hadn’t thought about it beforehand, but you’re filled with relief to find Svetlana gone. Mandy continues speaking, even as she shoves some clothes into a paper bag. She’s up and about, like the last twenty-four hours never happened. “Listen, they’re letting me out, but you and me need to talk. Now.”

Your mind goes straight to Terry. “Why? What’s happened?”

“You tell me, shit face.”

“Excuse me?”

“What’s going on with you and Ian?”

“Nothin’.”

Your heart sinks and you kind of want to tell her the truth. You want to tell her that he’s soft and he’s gentle and he’s important. You want to tell her that you fucked up everything you could have possibly had with him by doing everything you can to protect her. You want to tell her everything and have her tell you that everything will be okay.

But that’s not how this works. Your relationship with Mandy isn’t based on comforting each other, and when it is, it’s you making promises you hope like hell you can keep.

“Bullshit.” She juts her hip, plants her hands on them, and glares. It’s the strongest you’ve seen her look in days. “The look on his face and the way he took off when I casually mentioned your impending nuptials tells me you’re a lying bastard.”

You throw yourself into the chair next to her bed, exhausted. “Impending nuptials? Seriously?”

“I was trying to make light of a shitty situation,” she says, “but obviously you’ve gone and made the situation even shittier by charming the pants off Ian!”

“Trust me, no pants have been charmed off.”

And probably never will be. It’s unfortunate, but …

“Mickey.”

You look at her, and the only way you can read her expression is because it’s one you’ve never seen on her before. Soft. Gentle.

“The last few days – all this _shit_ – it’s a fucking mess,” she says, walking around the bed to stand in front of you. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen with Dad, but you wanna know what I do know? I know that only five people know what happened in the living room that day, and those of us that aren’t giant pieces of shit have to stick together.”

You swallow hard. “We will. We are. That’s why I’m marrying her, for fuck’s sake. And even if Terry lives … I’ll figure something out. I promise.”

“I know, Mick, but we have to trust each other, too.”

You cock an eyebrow. “Oh, so now you don’t trust me?”

“Trusting each other means no more life-changing secrets.” She leans back against the bed and crosses her arms. “No more lying about shit that matters.”

“Who said Gallagher even matters?”

“Who said we were still talking about Ian?”

You wipe a hand over your mouth. “Fuck you.”

“Mickey.”

Soft.

Gentle.

“We kissed.” You say it without thinking, but the words make your heart jump. “We kissed, that’s it. Not like we’ve been fucking, or nothin’.”

“You don’t have to fuck someone to care about them.”

It sounds backwards, opposite to what you know and live. To what Mandy knows and lives. But of course, she’s right.

“The fuck am I supposed to do?” you ask. “Beg him to be my sidepiece? Doubt that’ll go down well.”

“I don’t know. Not that, though.”

“Helpful.”

She sighs. “Just try and talk to him. Maybe tell him – “

“I’m not telling him shit.”

The thing is that you trust Ian. You fucking do. But not with this. You trust no one but Iggy and Mandy with this.

Except that there’s this bitter feeling in the pit of your stomach telling you that no, maybe you don’t trust Ian. If he can turn on you as quickly as he did then he’s not someone you should trust. If he could assume the worst without knowing anything then fuck him. If he can’t see past the wall you put up, like he has every other time, then the wall needs to fucking stay.

“You have to tell him something.”

“I don’t have to tell him shit.”

“Mickey –“

You get to your feet. “Look, I’m leavin’. You comin’ or not?”

Soft and gentle turns to frustration. “Yeah I’m fuckin’ coming, but I’m not talking to you the entire ride home.”

“Small miracles,” you mutter, and follow her out the door.

\---

Iggy and Laura are in the living room when you get home and, honestly, Laura looks like shit. And not just because you don’t like chicks. She’s pale, but somehow slightly green, and has pin-prick size red dots all over her forehead.

“I thought being knocked up was supposed to make you glow.” You mutter and throw your jacket towards the couch. It lands on Ian’s first aid kit, which causes your chest to sink in on itself.

“More like _blow_ ,” she says. “Chunks, that is.”

“Sexy.”

“I don’t think she’s ever looked more gorgeous,” Iggy says, and his grin is half proud, half terrified.

Laura rolls her eyes at him then looks at you and Mandy. She gestures to her face and you notice the same red dots around her eyes. “It’s from all the puking – blown blood vessels, or something.”

“Gross,” Mandy says, even as she moves behind Laura and pulls her hair away from her face. “How far along are you?”

“Almost eleven weeks.”

“So in six months we’re gonna have a mini Iggy in the family?”

“No offense,” you tell them, “but I’d prefer a mini Laura.”

Laura smiles. “Same.”

Mandy laughs, a full, open-mouthed laugh that rings through the house, and you’ve never thought of your sister as beautiful before, but right then, it’s all you want to see. You make yourself look away, though, and grab out your smokes.

“Jesus, Mick,” she says, braiding Laura’s hair. “We literally just confirmed we want this kid to be a Laura, not an Iggy. Get the fuck outta here with that shit.”

“What shit?”

“No more smoking in the house. Go on. Get.”

You look at Iggy, but all he does is shrug and get to his feet. You watch him pull out his smokes and head for the front door, and even though you want to fight Mandy on this – maybe more out of habit than anything else – you follow without another word.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, and sit next to him on the front steps.

“She’s got a point, man. Gotta keep my baby healthy.”

It’s so fucking stupid, but it’s also so fucking cute, and you never thought you’d ever use the word _cute_ in relation to Iggy – or at all, for that matter – but it is what it is.

And that’s why you have to tell him.

“Shit, Mick, you gotta get your hands sorted, man,” he says before you can open your mouth. He hands you a lit cigarette. “They’re a fucking mess.”

You look at them, properly take them in for the first time that day, and they look terrible. Worse than they have previously since you decided to punch a fucking wall last night. You’ve managed to ignore the throbbing and stinging but looking at them now makes them hurt that much more.

You take a breath. Shaky. Distorted. Suck in a lungful of tobacco. The words tumble out without your consent. “Think I might’ve fucked things up with Ian.”

“The Gallagher kid? Oh, shit! You guys were fucking?”

“No. I mean … maybe one day, but …”

“But you fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

You sniff and swipe at your nose. “The whore.”

The whore. You know her name, you’ve spent time with her, she made you breakfast. But sometimes you can’t bring yourself to think of her as anything other than _the whore_. It’s not her fault she was called to your house to do whatever the fuck Terry was going to make her do.

_(She’s gonna fuck the faggot outta you, kid.)_

It’s not her fault. But you still can’t stand being around her.

“She ain’t your fault, bro,” Iggy says, smoke falling from his lips as he speaks. “She’s just … man, she’s just you protecting your family, doing whatever you fucking can to keep us – fucking all of us – safe. And, you know, Gallagher should be suckin’ your fuckin’ cock in thanks for keepin’ his BFF safe.”

“BFF?” you ask, both eyebrows raised.

“Whatever. Point is, you’re doin’ what you’re doin’ to save us, and that deserves more than whatever the fuck Gallagher’s givin’ ya.”

“He doesn’t know that, though.”

“Then tell him.”

You shake your head. “How the fuck are you having a kid when your IQ is so fucking low?”

“You don’t have to tell him everything, dumbass,” he says. “Just tell him enough.”

You pause because you have to tell him, too. You inhale on the smoke, hold it for as long as you can, relishing the burn in your lungs. “Ig … they’re gonna try and wake Terry up this afternoon.”

“Wake him up?”

“Yeah, see if he’ll breathe on his own.”

Iggy goes silent. He smokes and you smoke, and nothing more gets said until you’ve both gone through another two cigarettes.

“He will.”

It’s not a question, and that fucks you up almost as much as seeing your old man for yourself. Iggy seems to sure, so fucking certain, and that alone is a miracle. Iggy’s the king of indecisiveness – has never made a solid decision on a job or a dinner choice for as long as you’ve known him. He looks to you or Terry or even Mandy to make the decisions, to lead the way, to know what to do.

“Iggy …”

He hands you another smoke and you take it, knowing that’s the end of the conversation.

\---

Just tell him enough.

It sounds simple. It _is_ simple. Maybe that’s why it took Iggy to think of it. Your own brain’s been going back and forwards, up and down, inside-fucking-out over Ian for the last three days, and since your confrontation outside the hospital, it’s been a fucking maze with no exit.

One minute you hurt at the thought of him, of hurting him, of the look he gave you when he turned to face you. The next, you’re furious that he doesn’t understand, that he doesn’t _just know_ – know what you’ve been through, know what Terry did, know who Svetlana is – even though you haven’t told him. And it doesn’t make sense, but nothing in your life makes a shitload of sense right now, so you figure it must be about right.

First-aid kit hanging gingerly from your aching fingers, you huff out a curse, then lift your free hand to knock on the Gallaghers’ front door. You don’t know if he’s home, if anyone’s home … shit, you don’t even know if he still lives here.

You also don’t know what you’re going to say when the door opens, whether it be Ian or one of his siblings. The first-aid kit, while belonging to Ian, is a fucking excuse, and a pretty shitty one at that.

But when the door opens, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Ian, whose eyes widen at the sight of you, whose mouth opens and closes as though stuck for words, whose face softens for an instant before hardening again.

“Hey,” you attempt.

“What are you doin’ here?”

You don’t miss the role reversal of the conversation, and you’re willing to bet he doesn’t, either. You hold up the first-aid kit.

“You forgot this at my place.”

“Right.” He reaches for it, takes it from you, then frowns. He grasps at your wrist with his free hand. “Jesus, Mickey.”

He’s talking about your hands, you know he is, but all you can concentrate on is the feeling of his skin on yours, the _thump-thump-thump_ of your pulse beneath his fingertips. It’s soft and it’s gentle and it’s immediate. You haven’t apologised, explained, anything, but it’s there anyway.

You know that you’ll fight. You’re still so fucking tired, but you will fight for Ian, even if it takes everything you have left.

“Can we talk?”

He meets your gaze in the late-afternoon sun, pauses, nods.

“Sure.” He opens the door wider and lets you in. You stand in the middle of the living room and watch as he drops his first-aid kit on the floor near the door and then starts up the stairs. He indicates for you to follow him. “No one’s home, but you can never really be sure when someone’s gonna turn up.”

“Right.” You don’t know what else to say, but you follow him all the same, up a set of stairs, down a hall, into a bedroom that holds nothing more than a bed, dresser, and a bedside table. “Nice digs.”

And if the ground could open and swallow you whole, that would be awesome. You shift uncomfortably, keenly aware of Ian’s gaze on you, and ever more aware of your own idiocy. Who knew apologising would be so hard?

“I’m an asshole,” you finally say, and it’s not the first time you’ve admitted to that. Not even the first time today.

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Yeah.” You shove your hands into your jean’s pockets, fight a wince at the pain, and avoid making eye contact with Ian. He stays silent, stands opposite you, next to his bed.

Fuck.

His bed.

You look around – at the floor, out the window, back at the closed door behind you – and when you finally grow the balls to meet his gaze, it’s with every intent to stand up for yourself, to tell him you’re doing this for a good reason, to prove to him you’re not an asshole, not entirely. But when you look into his eyes …

“I’m sorry.”

He frowns. Soft. Gentle. “What for?”

“A lot. Too much.” You laugh and rub both hands over your face. “A lot of too much shit I can’t explain.”

“Like your fiancé.”

You look at him and he doesn’t seem mad anymore, just resigned, and you realise then that maybe it really is done, ruined, over. Maybe you’ve finally decided to fight for him just when he’s done fighting for you, and shit, you can’t even blame him. It’s been forty-eight hours of soft looks and gentle touches and intense feelings, but forty-eight hours is nothing.

“Mick?”

Clarity.

Steadiness.

Forty-eight hours is everything. The last forty-eight hours have been the most important of your life.

“Two days ago, someone shot my dad. You saved his life, but you never asked who shot him.”

Surprise flashes across his face at your words. “Should I have?”

“You don’t think it’s weird that you didn’t?”

“Not really?” He slips his hands into his own pockets and leans against his bedside table. “If you walked in here and someone had shot Frank, would you give a shit?”

“No.”

“Exactly.”

 _Just tell him enough_.

“I lied to the cops.”

He shrugs. “I’m a Gallagher, Mickey, you don’t have to explain this shit to me.”

“Yeah. I mean, you get it.”

His eyes narrow, as though he only just now realises where the conversation is heading. “Of course I do. We don’t snitch.”

You nod because there it is. “I told them there was a party and someone shot Terry. Told ‘em we saw nothing.”

“But there was no party?”

“There was no party,” you confirm.

“And you did see something.”

“Yeah. And so did Svetlana.”

“She was there?”

You hate talking about it, talking about her, but you can still see the fear on her face in the moments after Terry got shot.

“She was there. She’s a whore Terry had called over.” You can’t tell him what for, not yet. “She saw what happened, and I’m gonna do whatever it takes to keep her mouth shut.”

He stands up straight, takes a step towards you. “Holy shit, Mickey, you’re marrying her to keep her quiet?”

“She wants a green card. I can get her one with minimal suffering.” You meet his gaze. “At least, I could. Before.”

“Shit.” He stares at you and you stare back, and your throat feels thick in a way you can’t stand. He finally gestures to his bed. “Sit down.”

You sit, and you’re so fucking tired.

“I’m not gonna ask,” he says, and sits next to you. “I’ll never ask, Mick, not ever.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Soft. Gentle. “I have a pretty solid guess considering the last few days, and if you ever decide you do want to tell me, I’ll listen. But I won’t ask. I promise.”

And that’s what breaks you. You’ve made promises – to Mandy, to Iggy, to Svetlana – and you don’t know how you’re going to keep any of them, but when Ian Gallagher promises you this one, minute promise, it doesn’t fucking matter.

You’re so fucking tired and when the thickness in your throat forms into a solid fucking lump, you can’t fight it anymore.

“Fuck,” you mutter, but it’s choked, broken.

And maybe you’re broken. Long-term damaged.

“Mick?”

You lean your elbows on your knees, press the heels of your hands into your wet eyes, and say nothing. You shake, a silent tremble that you can’t stop and only gets worse when Ian places a warm hand on your shoulder blade.

“S’okay, Mick,” he murmurs, and you wipe at your eyes, sniff hard, sit up straight. He keeps talking and doesn’t remove his hand. “Whatever happens, it’s gonna be okay.”

You laugh, damp and slightly hysterical. “You don’t know that, man.”

“No, I don’t. But I’m gonna do everything I can to make it true.”

“Ian …” You look at him and you don’t know what to say. A million things are on the tip of your tongue, but none of them feel right, none of them _are_ right. You want to say something badass, so he forgets about the fucking tears drying on your lashes, but even more you want to say something real, something important, something he’ll never forget.

You want to say something soft, something gentle.

You say nothing.

You lean forward and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Small, simple. Nothing sexual about it. But he still sucks in a breath, turns, tries to follow your lips as you pull back. He attempts nothing, though. Instead, he smiles.

“How about you finally let me get those hands sorted, huh?”

His smile is so fucking charming that all you can do is nod.

“Yeah, okay, Gallagher.”

He gets onto his knees in front of you again, but your gaze is stuck to his mouth, his lips, his smile, that the position means nothing. Even when he leans close to reach for something beneath his bed, you continue to watch his beautiful face.

Because you’ve got it bad for this guy. Really fucking bad.

“Here’s the problem,” he says, sitting back on his heels and looking up at you. “Pretty sure these are infected.”

“They’re fine.”

“You keep saying that.” He opens a first-aid kit, one he must keep beneath his bed, and pulls out a bunch of crap you have no interest in. “But they just keep getting worse.”

And this time when he takes your hand in his, it’s different. It’s still soft and gentle, but it’s more. It’s familiar. It’s natural.

You keep watching him as he cleans your hands, only noticing what he’s doing when there’s a sting of antiseptic gel, the cooling of burn cream. You stare, fascinated, when he purses his lips and blows on your hands, just like he did last time.

“Jesus, Ian.”

But there’s no jolt of lust that shoots through you this time. This time it’s an ache in your chest at how kind he is, how good he is. Specifically, how kind and how good he is to you. His cool breath fans over your hot burns, and there’s nothing but affection on his face and maybe it fucks you up that little bit more.

“Promise me you’ll keep your bandages on this time,” he says, reaching for fresh bandages with one hand, still holding onto one of yours with the other.

“I promise.” It’s the easiest one you’ve made.

He wraps your hands, each finger individually in the bandage from his kit, and he’s efficient, focused, tender. You’re not used to this kind of care, but you think that, with Ian, you might be able to get there.

“All done,” he says eventually, but he’s still holding your hands.

“Thanks.”

“Look after them.”

“I will.”

You stare at him and he stares back. Then he gets to his feet and pulls you up to yours. He stands over you, the height difference causing you to look up into his eyes, and your heart sinks when you realise this is it, it’s time to go.

“What happens now?” you ask, and you try to hate yourself for it, for asking with so much desperation, but you can’t.

“I don’t know.” He’s still holding your hands, the very tips of your fingers in his. “You’re getting married.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“And I don’t wanna let go of you yet. This thing – you and me – it’s good. I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumbs stroke at your knuckles and you can feel it through the thin fabric of your bandages. “I want to keep liking it.”

“But I’m getting married.”

And the _when_ of your impending nuptials isn’t even the problem. Tomorrow, next year, it doesn’t matter. It’s happening, probably sooner rather than later, and that kind of fucks up everything you could have with Ian.

You pull your hands away, and it tears at your insides to do so. “I should probably go.”

“You don’t have to.”

Except that you do. If you stay, you’re going to fall, and maybe Ian will fall a little, too, but you’re still going to marry Svetlana, so how is any of that fair? You swallow heavily, try to wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans and just end up catching the bandages on denim.

“Nothing’s changed, Gallagher. You knowing why I’m doin’ it doesn’t change the fact that I’m doin’ it. It doesn’t change … this, whatever the fuck this is.”

He doesn’t disagree. He doesn’t try to stop you when you step past him and start for the door. He doesn’t fight you or fight for you. Not that you blame him. You came here to fight for him, but there is no fighting, not when the outcome is you married to a whore. He knows, now – he understands – and that’s enough.

His hand lands on your shoulder as you reach for the doorknob. He spins you, pushes you, crowds you until your back is against the door and he’s right in front of you, not an inch between you. He moves his hand, drags it from your shoulder, over your chest, down your side, and you feel every second of it, of his hot skin seeping through your shirts, of his breath across your skin, of his heavy-lidded gaze on yours.

“Don’t go.” His hand stops at your hip. Applies pressure.

“Ian –“

“Please,” he whispers, lowers his forehead to yours, closes his eyes. “I don’t want you to go.”

Your breath catches. “What about after? What happens then?”

Both of his hands press against your hips, slip under your shirt, graze over your skin, hot, hot, electrified, burning your insides, melting you. You’re goo beneath his touch, pliable to anything he wants from you.

“We’ll figure something out.” And it’s the same promise you made Mandy, made Iggy. It sounds a lot more convincing coming from Ian. “We’ll figure it out.”

His hands on your body, large and firm. His palms against your ribs, sweaty and insistent. His fingers on your skin, long and tempting. But it’s his eyes, staring down into yours, heated and desperate, honest and pleading.

“Fuck, Ian.”

“Can I?” he asks, begs. His hands move, fingers skim the top of your jeans. “Wanna make you feel good.”

You grit your teeth, breathe through your nose, and stare up at him. You can’t say yes and you sure as shit can’t say no. You can’t say anything. The moment you open your mouth, give your vocal cords permission to do something, anything, you’ll be a mess of moans and whimpers and _yes, Ian, please_.

You nod.

He groans.

He kisses you, a deep, wanting kiss that makes you think of broken hearts and wounded souls, eternal sunshine, and moonlight drives. The kind of kiss that makes your knees weak and your heart stutter, that makes you grasp at the back of his neck – the best you can with your fingers wrapped – and plan to never let go.

His own hands move from the button of your jeans, up, up, across your stomach, your ribs, your back, _everywhere_. He touches you with hands that are strong and soft and gentle. He smooths over shivery flesh, digs into sharp bones, and thumbs over pointed nipples.

“Fuck,” you whisper into his mouth, and he swallows it right up, a vague _mmhm_ in response, even as his hands drop again, caress your lower back, pull you towards him.

And he’s steadying, solid. With his tongue tracing messy patterns on every crevice he can find, his lips swollen against your own, and his breath ragged and catching, he’s stable. He’s safe.

You can feel him against you, rutting slightly against your thigh as he tugs at your jeans, pops the button, yanks at the zipper, and you shake. You shake when he peels open your jeans, you shake when he slips them over your hips, and you shake when he lowers your boxers just enough to get your dick out.

But you tremble, your entire body _throbs_ , when his scorching hand wraps around you, when his teeth bite into your bottom lip at the feel of you, when he whispers a hoarse _fuck, fuck, fuck_ into your mouth as his hand begins to move. You have no control over yourself, over what you do, what you say, what your body does in reaction to Ian’s touch.

All you can do is hold onto his neck, curse the bandages because you can’t feel his skin, and try to fucking _breathe_ through his kisses when he moves his wrist, strokes you dry, moves his lips against yours and never once pulls away. And it burns, everything is heated and frenzied, his tongue in your mouth and his hand on your cock, and this thumb swiping at pre-come …

It’s not enough and it’s too much. There’s a feeling, right between your chest and stomach, chaotic and powerful, and your knees wobble and each breath surrounds a small whimper and the only thing that keeps you standing is Ian’s strong arm around your waist.

“Don’t stop kissin’ me,” he whispers into your mouth, words breathed into your lungs, voice _wrecked_. “Wanna taste the way you sound when you come.”

You moan. Your body sags against the door. You thread bandaged fingers into his hair.

The hand on your cock keeps moving, slicker with pre-come, twisting just the right way at the top, and it’s almost a close second, a background motion, a feeling that sends tingles throughout your body while Ian’s mouth – his words, his tongue, his teeth – propel you towards something, everything, _oh, Ian, please …_

His other hand slips down, grips your ass, and you want more, want everything, but you’re so close, too close, so fucking overwhelmed by hands and lips and words that you can’t concentrate, you can’t breathe. You try to focus on his hand, the hand making you want and pulse and beg, but then his lips, his teeth, his other hand –

It’s exploding stars and the fourth of July. It’s the swoop in your stomach right before you fall. It’s cold nights, windows open, the only heat coming from heavy blankets and the warm body next to you.

It’s everything.

It’s Ian.

You come, white-hot, panting and sobbing into Ian’s mouth.

He doesn’t stop kissing you. Not once.

He kisses you through your orgasm, fucks his tongue into your mouth and then soothes your lips with gentle nibbles. He scatters soft kisses against your mouth and licks at your teeth. He breathes against you and inhales you. He doesn’t move away.

“Jesus,” you eventually mutter.

He hums against your lips, removes his hand, and wipes your come on the back of his jeans. And he keeps kissing you, just little pecks that make your heart swell and your stomach warm. You smile, one side of your mouth tugging up as he kisses that exact spot, and force yourself to pull back, open your eyes, look up at him.

He’s beautiful. His cheeks are flushed, lips kiss-bitten and wet, and his eyes fucking shine with satisfaction.

And you can still feel him, hard against your thigh.

You relax your fingers, ignoring the ache that comes from too many burns holding too tightly to his hair, and smooth them over his neck, across his jaw, down his chest. You want to help him, make him feel good, but you’re not even sure you’ll be able to undo his button with your hands bandaged the way they are.

He stops you, though. He cradles – _fucking_ _cradles_ – your hands in his and brings them up to his face, to his mouth, presses his lips to your fingertip, the only skin showing.

“You’re still –“ you begin, but he cuts you off with a sharp nip to your middle finger. Sharp, but on the _right_ side of painful, enough for a shot of _almost_ to shoot to your spent dick.

“Next time.”

“Next time?”

He manoeuvres your hands, wraps your arms around his neck, and slips his arms around your waist and he hugs you. He hugs you and it takes a moment – a really long moment – but you eventually tighten your hold on him, hug him back, and it’s new and it hurts and it’s so fucking nice.

“Next time,” he breathes into the skin of your neck, and for a split second, everything feels okay.

\---

You walk home in a daze, with plans to meet up with Ian later that night. You think you should talk, figure shit out, but what you want is to touch, to taste, to fuck. You want more of what you just had because what you just had was fucking amazing.

And it was new. It’s not like you’ve never had a hot guy jack you off before, but never one you genuinely liked. Never one who genuinely seemed to like you. But you’ve got this _thing_ going with Ian – a good thing that he _likes_ – and it’s fun and exciting and frightening.

It’s more than any other fuck you’ve had, and _you_ like it, too.

You like him.

A lot.

You grin stupidly the whole way home and there’s this spiteful part of you – the Milkovich part, ironically enough – that wants to go to the hospital, wait for Terry to wake up, and go into every fucking detail of what just happened between you and Ian. While he’s lying in bed, unable to do anything but glare and maybe spit out some homophobic words, you want to tell him everything.

Your good mood disappears when you walk in the front door. Svetlana’s there. Again. With Mandy. _Again_. Your eyes narrow as you watch them step away from each other, as though they weren’t having what was obviously a serious conversation.

“Discussing wedding invitations?”

Mandy looks at you, wide-eyed. “We’re packing.”

You only notice the bag in front of her then, the clothes half-shoved in while she holds a pair of heels in her hand.

Panic. Straight up your spine. Out your mouth.

“What’s happened? Is he awake?”

She shakes her head. “No. I don’t know. Svetlana found us an apartment.”

You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, try to concentrate. You don’t know if it’s the killer orgasm or if Mandy’s simply not making sense, but you’re not getting it.

“The fuck’re you talking about?”

She drops the shoes on the table and walks around it to stand in front of you. “Mick. I have to go. If Dad wakes up … shit, Mickey, even if he doesn’t, I can’t stay here anymore. This house? Fuck, it’s a fucking house of horrors. You’ve gotta see that.”

In a post-orgasm haze you look at this house and see your first kiss with Ian, Iggy and Laura talking about their kid, Mandy braiding Laura’s hair. But in reality, you see the dirty pink stain beneath your feet, the couch Terry wanted a whore to fuck on you, the spot where Mandy told you what Terry had done to her all those years.

And you see years of broken fingers and bloody noses, verbal abuse, and manipulation by fear. You see a bunch of kids who have always been too fucking scared to move because of what their father would do to them.

You look at Mandy, terrified but determined, and nod.

“Yeah, okay, yeah. Yeah, you should go.” Tension leaves your body at the relief on her face. “Where, though? Where will you go?”

She gestures behind her, towards Svetlana. “She found us an apartment. It’s tiny, a fucking shit-hole, but it’s got a solid lock and Terry will never find it.”

“Good, good.” You wipe your wrapped palms on your thighs, Mandy’s excitement and nerves rubbing off on you and adrenaline kicking in. “We’ll all get outta here. You and Svetlana go to the apartment and I’ll crash with Iggy and Laura for a while.”

Because you can’t go to the apartment with them, not yet. You’re going to have to live with Svetlana eventually, but for now, when you can still barely look at her sometimes, you’ll avoid it for as long as you can.

“I talked to them after you left. They’re already looking for a different place. Somewhere Dad doesn’t know about.”

You nod. “I’ve got money stashed away, I can help with that, and if you need some –“

“I’ve got my own stash, Mick.”

“’Course you do.” You thumb at your nose and glance between her and Svetlana. “Okay, I’ll crash with Ig and Laura for a while. Until the wedding, I guess. I mean, a green card ain’t gonna look that legit if we ain’t livin’ together, right?”

“Mickey.”

Mandy looks at you and it’s something you can’t decipher. A mixture of pity, amusement, and affection. You swallow, hard.

“What?”

“You’re not marrying Svetlana.”

You glare at the whore then look back at Mandy. “Fuck you, I already told you I’ll do whatever the fuck it takes – “

“Shut the fuck up and listen, dickhead.”

You shut the fuck up. You listen. You hope.

“You’re not marrying Svetlana. I am.”

“What the fuck –“

“Shut. Up. And. Listen.” She pokes at your shoulder with each word and you hold your hands up in surrender.

When she lowers her hand, she glances behind her and, even though she says nothing, Svetlana nods. She grabs her cigarette holder, a smoke, and a lighter, and starts for the door. You stare at the ground as she passes you, and when the door closes, you glare at Mandy.

“No.”

“Stop it,” she says. “Whatever Terry was going to make the two of you do, it wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t hers, either, but there is no way in hell I’m gonna let you marry her after what Iggy told you.”

“Iggy? What –“

“Corrective rape,” she mutters and your heart falls into your stomach, “and this will be the first and last time I ever bring it up, okay? I just need you to understand that the only person to blame for what nearly happened that day is Terry, but I’m still not gonna let you marry her.”

You take a low breath, face expressionless. You can take in what she said – not doing so is impossible – but you don’t have to comment on it. You don’t have to _discuss_ it. You sniff and shove your hands into your pockets.

“So you’re gonna marry her instead?”

She shrugs. “She’s actually not that bad, when you’re not being blackmailed into liking her. Plus, she kinda gets the whole nightmare-dad thing.”

“You two bonded over shitty dads and now you wanna get hitched. Makes sense.”

“Mickey –“

“You already saved my ass once, Mandy, you don’t have to do it again.”

She rolls her eyes. “I want to!”

“Yeah, but … you can’t marry some whore - you’re not even gay.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t marry some whore, either – you _are_ gay!”

You pause, and Mandy grins at her triumph.

“You’re such a dick,” you mutter.

She steps forwards and wraps her arms around your shoulders. It’s your second hug in less than an hour, but you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to them.

“You’ve spent the last three days doin’ everything you can to protect me,” she whispers into your ear. “Let me do this for you.”

You slowly reach up, hug her back. You can’t remember the last time you hugged your sister, but she’s unfamiliar in your arms and that tells you everything you need to know.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, voice small, weak, selfish. You’ll give her the out, go and marry Svetlana right now if she takes it, but you want her to tell you to shut up again, to call you a dickhead again, tell you one more time that you don’t have to do this.

All she does is pull back and smile. “I know. And no one’s making me.”

\---

You go to the hospital. You don’t want to see Terry – awake or not – but you’re sick of not knowing. You spent too long not knowing if he was going to be okay, and now you’re done. You’re ready to know, once and for all, what moves you and your family have to make to survive from here on out.

Because if Terry wakes up, it’s not just about new apartments and avoiding the family home. It’s about getting jobs where he won’t find you, staying out of the neighbourhood, sleeping with a gun under your pillow while living with your brother and a pregnant woman. It’s about attempting whatever it is you’ve got going on with Ian while Terry lives a few blocks away from him. It’s about protecting Iggy and Laura’s kid from everything Terry related. It’s about Mandy marrying a chick and Terry’s reaction to that.

Which, honestly, makes you sick because you think it might be the opposite of his reaction to you being gay.

If Terry wakes up, the rest of your life until he dies will be spent looking over your shoulder, and you need to prepare for that now.

When you get to the hospital, it’s like you just missed out, like you arrived at the end of an action scene. People – nurses, doctors – walk out of his room, whisper to each other, don’t meet your gaze. And you don’t know what that means, but when you push past, ignore the one hand that tries to stop you, you see.

He’s dead.

Pale. Thin. Tubes still going in and out of places you don’t want to think about.

But unmistakably dead.

The doctor, same one you spoke to earlier, turns and sees you.

“I’m sorry for your loss. He reacted well to the tube being removed, but sometimes this just happens.”

You want to tell her it’s okay, she doesn’t need to apologise, but you can’t open your mouth.

“The heart gives out,” she continues. “It’s been through a lot of trauma already, and your father wasn’t the healthiest person to begin with, so …”

She keeps talking but you don’t take it in. You stare at Terry and you think you should feel something, anything – relief, shock, elation? – but you feel nothing. You think nothing. You just stare.

And stare.

The doctor places a hand on your arm, and you pull your gaze away from Terry to look at her.

“You should find your brother,” she says. “He was in here when it happened, and you should make sure he’s okay.”

Iggy.

You leave without a word, without another look at Terry. It doesn’t matter. Maybe it will later, maybe it will hit you sometime in the future, but right then, it doesn’t matter. You don’t give a shit. He’s dead. That’s it. That’s all you can think about it. There’s nothing else there and maybe it’s some kind of shock, but you don’t feel shocked, just matter-of-fact.

He’s dead.

You pull your phone out as you walk down the hall, glancing around the hospital between glances at your phone to bring up Iggy’s contact. Phone to your ear, you call him, half listening to the ringing through the phone, half listening for his unmistakably obnoxious ringtone.

When he doesn’t pick up, you take the stairs down the two floors to ground level and try to call him again. And again. He still doesn’t answer, but you stop when you exit the front doors.

It’s nearly dark out, but you see him. He stands, back against the hospital wall, smoke in hand, less than a hundred yards away. You stare at him for a moment, catch your breath, try to ease your panic. And you’re not even sure what you’re panicking over. Iggy won’t care that Terry’s gone – it’s not like he’s going to be over there crying out his grief – but …

But your hands shake slightly as you hurry over to him and your gut feels tangled.

“Hey,” you say when you reach him.

“Hey.”

You lean next to him against the wall. He lights up a second cigarette and passes it to you. You inhale, the nicotine enters your bloodstream, and your body loosens.

“Ig.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s dead.”

He nods and takes another drag of his smoke. Says nothing. You watch. You think of his own panic that morning. You think of how scared he was for his kid.

“Ig.”

“Yeah?”

“What did you do?”

He looks at you and he doesn’t look sorry. There’s recognition and understanding and not an ounce of regret. His eyes flicker between yours and something inside you lurches, but you don’t know what it is, how to deal with it, so you smoke some more and stay where you are and say nothing.

“I did what I had to,” he finally says.

You think that maybe you already knew that. You nod. You say nothing. You lean towards him, bump your shoulder against his.

You say nothing.

\---

You leave town. You wouldn’t call it a _bender_ , exactly, but you do spend all your money on booze and a cheap motel room, and then you drink yourself stupid. You smash the empty bottles, smoke through four packs of cigarettes, and sleep for twenty hours straight.

After a hot shower, a greasy breakfast, and the strongest coffee of your life, you finally check your phone.

Multiple calls from Mandy and Iggy, one call from Tony Markovich, and one from Ian.

That hurts. You’re so fucking over being sad and angry and worried at what the world might bring, but only one call from Ian hits you right in the gut and for a second you forget how to breathe.

You listen to a couple of Mandy’s voicemails, but delete them all once she starts calling you a selfish prick who doesn’t give a shit. You can hear the vodka in her voice and won’t hold it against her, but you don’t need to hear it.

Iggy’s voicemails are short and straight to the point, demanding that you get in touch. When his last one ends with him hoping you’re not pissed at him, you know you’re going to have to have a _conversation_.

Ian, though …

_“Hey, Mick. I know you’re going through some shit. Mandy told me what happened, and I hope you’re okay. It’s a fucked-up situation, man, and I don’t blame you for taking off. Call me if you need me. Or even if you don’t. Just … call me.”_

You swipe a hand over your face and glance around the diner. It’s early, there’s only a couple of other people there, and none of them are looking at you, none of them can see the pounding pulse in your neck and chest.

“Fuck.”

You want to call him back, but you call Iggy instead.

“Where the fuck are you?” he answers immediately, and you didn’t realise until then how worried you were about him.

“Joliet.”

He sighs. “You’re such a dick. Mandy’s pissed, too.”

“I know.”

“She wants to do this wedding bullshit now. Like, yesterday. She’ll tell you you’re fuckin’ lucky you called when you did because it was planned for today whether you turned up or not, but in reality she’s been waiting for you to call so we can head down to the courthouse as soon as you’re back. She’s already got the fucking license.”

“Jesus.” You rub at the back of your neck. “She’s still goin’ through with that shit?”

“Yeah, I mean, Svetlana knows what happened that day, even with Dad gone, but –“ he pauses, deep drag of his smoke – “I think Mandy likes her, so …”

“Like her? Like fucking _likes her_?”

“Na, just … they’re friends, I guess. I dunno, Mick, it’s weird and I’m too fucking chicken-shit of either of them to question it.”

You sigh. Think about Ian’s voicemail, the way his voice sounds when he calls you _Mick_. You can’t help a smile, just a small one, and you’re hit with an eagerness to get back home.

After a long silence, Iggy speaks, and it hits you hard. “You think I fucked up?”

“No way,” you say, no hesitation. “It just sucks that it had to happen that way.”

You know what you’re talking about and he knows what you’re talking about, but neither of you say it. You don’t think either of you ever will. More silence follows, and you can picture him nodding in agreement while smoking a ciggie or a joint. Finally, he lets out a long sigh.

“Text me the address. I’ll come get ya.”

\---

All you can think about is Ian. You know he’s not mad, like Mandy – his voicemail was enough to assure you of that – but you do wonder _what now_? You haven’t seen him since he got you off in his bedroom two days before and you want to. You really fucking want to.

When you’re two minutes from home, you send a text to the number he called from, warmth filling you at the realisation that he would have had to have asked Mandy for your number. Or maybe even Iggy. You like it. It settles something inside of you.

“Good luck in there,” Iggy mutters when he pulls up outside the house.

“You ain’t coming in?”

“And deal with the bridezillas? Fuck no. I’ll see ya at the courthouse later.”

You climb out of the car and flip him off before heading inside. You can’t believe Mandy’s going through with this shit. You want to talk her out of it, convince her it’s a shitty idea, but you can’t. And when you walk in the front door, you can’t even think of a decent reason to do so.

They’re laughing. They each have a glass of wine in hand, throwing shit into boxes with the other, and they’re giggling. You can’t remember the last time you saw Mandy giggle.

“About time your piece-of-shit ass got home,” she says when she sees you, and her words are hard, but it’s forced. You can see in her eyes that she’s done being mad. You’re back, she’s getting married – to a fucking whore – and that’s all that matters.

“Just tell me you’re not wearing white,” you say, entering the living room. “I’m not sure I can handle any more lies.”

She grins. “Red, actually. It perfectly matches my _Sex Pot_ shade of lipstick.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, and look at Svetlana. “I suppose you’re gonna be wearing _Hooker Red_?”

“Kinky,” she says, and you honestly don’t know if that’s her reply or another shade of lipstick.

“And after that, I need a shower.”

“We’ve got shit to do before the ceremony,” Mandy says. “If you’re not at the courthouse at two I will get married without you and then come back here and chop off your dick, got it?”

You salute her with your middle finger and head for the bathroom. You hear the door slam shut behind them as you turn on the shower. You just showered that morning at the motel, but if the greasy diner, Iggy’s shit car, and that conversation with Mandy and Svetlana weren’t enough to make you want to shower again … well, you have a wedding to attend.

With your hair and body clean, you’re in and out in minutes, and trying to figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to wear to a courthouse wedding where your sister is marrying a whore. All worries of clothes drop from your mind when you walk into your bedroom and see Ian sitting on your bed, though.

You stare. He stares back, but he also smiles and stands up to greet you. You just stare and stare because he’s so fucking hot and it’s so, so fucking nice to see him. To just look at him and forget about everything else. Your not-bender was more out of relief than anything else, but even still, seeing Ian is the first moment of peace you’ve felt since …

Since the last time you saw Ian.

“I could get used to this,” he says, pulling you out of your daze.

“Of what?”

“You in a towel. And nothing else.”

You narrow your eyes. “And here I thought you liked my charming personality.”

“I see you’ve been looking after your hands.”

And you have. Kind of. You didn’t rip the bandages off and punch at walls, anyway.

“They probably need to be changed.”

“Good thing I brought my first-aid kit,” he says, nodding towards your feet, and sure enough.

“Fucking boy scout.”

He grins. “Not sure boy scouts think the things I’m thinkin’.”

You’re already a little hard. Seeing him – red hair, stupid freckles, beautiful smile – is enough to send a jolt of arousal through you, but the banter, the look in his eyes …

You kiss him, wet and messy, not caring about finesse or easing into it. You just want to taste him, to feel him, and if the way he surges into you is any indication, he’s into it.

His tongue feels thick against your own, his teeth clash with yours a little too often, and his breath is hot and heavy, but it’s so _good_. It’s not careful and delicate like your first kiss and it’s not demanding and persuasive like your second one. It’s desperate, needy, fucking filled with want.

Because you want him and he wants you and, even though you’re in your childhood home, there’s nothing stopping you. You can have what you want, take what you’re so impatient to have.

With his hands on your face, you grip his jacket, step forward, push him back to sitting on your bed. You don’t stop kissing him, though. You stay attached at the mouth and you don’t ever want to leave. You want to spend forever kissing him, making up for the last two days of your not-bender, and the two days before that when you kept fucking up.

You just want to taste him, all of him.

You pull back, drop to your knees, and the sound he makes goes straight to your cock.

“Fuck, Mick.”

You take a deep breath, and another, because he’s gone and kissed the air out of your lungs, and you need a moment. Just one, while you run your hands up and down his thighs. Up. Down. Up. Up until your thumb finds the crease in his jeans, until your palm feels the outline of him beneath the denim, until your bandaged fingers stiffly undo his button and zipper.

“You – you don’t have to,” he says, but it sounds reluctant. “You’ve been through some shit – your dad –“

“Ian.” You lick at your lips when he meets your gaze. “My dad died, dude, not my dick.”

He stays silent, watches your every move as you get his jeans and boxers down, down, just far enough to see and holy fucking fuck.

“Holy fuck.”

He whines, hands fisted into the blankets beneath him. You look away from his – _fucking huge_ – dick, up at him through your lashes, and smile.

“Something you want?”

“You’re an asshole,” he says, voice raw.

You rub your hands back up his thighs, now bare, soft orange hairs catching unfortunately on the edges of your bandages and fuck you can’t wait to take those things off. He shudders beneath you, tries to thrust his leaking dick towards your face, and you move your hands up, over his hips, pull him towards you.

He’s a smooth heat on your tongue, heavy and thick. Salty in a way that makes your mouth water. He moans, loud and heedless, at the first touch of your lips to his head, and you didn’t know, you never thought he would be so _loud_. So vocally appreciative. It spurs you on.

You move your lips over him, mouth kisses down his length, over his balls, and he smells of soap and arousal and you’re so fucking into it, so into the noises he makes when you lick up his shaft, down for the way his hand sits on your head – so soft, so gentle – so fucking here for the way he croaks out your name.

“Mick, _please_ …”

And how could you possibly say no?

You swallow him, take down all of him that you can. You suck tight, swirl your tongue, hum every so slightly, and categorise every reaction he has to everything you do. Label it from _likes it_ – dragging your tongue across vein on the underside of his cock – to _fucking loves it_ – swallowing around the tip of his dick.

He grips your hair, tugs, forces out a noise that could maybe be mistaken for your name, but you ignore it, ignore his warning, and suck harder, swallow quicker, until he comes down your throat in hot spurts that make you moan around him.

You pull off once he’s spent, but don’t go far. His hand is still on your head, petting softly, gently, and you lower your head, rest it on his bare thigh, catch your breath. He shakes beneath you, small tremors that make you close your eyes and smile.

“Fuck, Mick,” he says, and his voice is completely fucked-out.

You sit up to look at him. “Yeah?” And your voice is even worse than his.

He slides down and wedges himself between you and the bed. “Fuck yeah.”

He kisses you, licks at the remnants of himself in your mouth, and your brain is too muddled to do much more than kiss back, to wrap bandaged hands around his neck and kiss. But when he reaches for your towel, for the bulge barely hidden behind it, you stop him.

“We’ve got a wedding to get ready for.”

He groans and smooths his hands down your thighs. “Can’t they wait for us?”

“You really wanna deal with Mandy’s wrath if we make her wait at her own wedding?”

“No,” he says. He sulks for a moment and you stare at the freckles on his cheekbones, then grins. “Hey, Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“You wanna be my date?”

You want to laugh because it’s stupid and it’s sweet and it’s exactly what you need. He is exactly what you need. After all the shit from the last week – fuck, your entire life – Ian is exactly what you need.

“You’re a soft bitch.”

His grin widens. “Is that a yes?”

You kiss him. You kiss him and it’s spring flowers and warm summer nights. It’s a smooth hit and a lazy high. It’s soft and it’s gentle.

You kiss him and it’s everything you need.

He reaches for you again. “I can be quick,” he gasps into your mouth, and it’s tempting, so fucking tempting.

You grab his hands, pull him to you, wrap his arms around your waist and shiver in the feel of his hands against your bare skin. You move your own arms around his neck and, yeah, you hug him. Again. You hug Ian and he hugs you back – really fucking tightly – and it’s still so fucking nice.

“Next time,” you breathe against his neck.

“Next time?” He pulls back a little, just enough to see your face, and his eyes are hopeful, soft, gentle. You kiss his lips and answer into his mouth.

“Next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! [My tumblr!](https://wehangout.tumblr.com)


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